


Lessons of Needles and Blades

by Deliahscrush2003



Series: Lesson of Needles and Blades [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arya Stark & Sansa Stark Have a Good Relationship, BAMF Arya Stark, BAMF Catelyn Tully Stark, BAMF Sansa Stark, BAMF Starks (ASoIaF), Canon Divergence - Bran Stark Doesn't Fall, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Good Parent Ned Stark, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jon Snow Knows Something, POV Ned Stark, POV Sansa Stark, Pre-Season/Series 01, Protective Arya Stark, Protective Robb Stark, Protective Starks (ASoIaF), Protective Theon Greyjoy, Resurrection, Sansa Stark Needs a Hug, Sansa Stark-centric, Sassy Arya Stark, Scheming, Theon Greyjoy is a Gift, Time Travel Fix-It, Warg Arya Stark, Warg Bran Stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:34:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 55,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23920141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deliahscrush2003/pseuds/Deliahscrush2003
Summary: The footsteps stopped and she looked up into the cold, dead eyes of Night.Please, I have prayed all these years, for all matter of things.For a prince, for love, for a knight, a savior, for death.He raised his sword above his head, and she didn’t look away or flinch.For my father, for my mother, for my sister and for my brothers.And as she eyed the sharp, glistening tip of the sword that was wet with the blood of her loved ones, she asked for one thing.Now I pray, to go back to the beginning.Those were the last words Sansa Stark thought of before the sword pierced her heart.The Beginning.
Relationships: Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Jon Snow & Arya Stark & Bran Stark & Rickon Stark & Robb Stark & Sansa Stark, Theon Greyjoy & Starks, Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Series: Lesson of Needles and Blades [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1724233
Comments: 97
Kudos: 526





	1. The End

**Author's Note:**

> ON HIATUS

The thing about war was that it was loud. The screams of the wounded, the sobs of the mourners and the battle cries of warriors left standing. The clang of swords, the roar of dragons and the sound of walls crumbling. They all blend together, an overwhelming force of what felt like inescapable sounds. War was so loud that it deafens until the only thing that can be heard is your panting breath and the beating of your heart. It’s so loud that everything goes quiet and time slows down until you can see when swords meet, arrows greet their mark and fire licks away at skin. Until you can see the mud flick up as bodies hit the ground and the exact moment the life fades in someone’s eyes. 

Right before an eerie blue glow replaces it. 

That’s what Sansa Stark saw as she stumbled out of what used to be the halls of her childhood home, now the resting place for the dead that would rise almost as fast as they fell. Sansa leaned back against the stone wall. She had sent Missandei along with Gilly and her little boy to the Broken Tower, giving the two a head-start as she and Tyrion Lannister led the dead out from the crypts after the rest of the women and children fell. Tyrion, who was always so kind to her. Tyrion, who was the best out of all her husbands. Tyrion, whose eyes now were blue, a result of him sacrificing himself so that she might make it out alive. 

Alas, it seemed like he only brought her a few more breaths by the looks of things. 

Around the courtyard, the army of the dead reached with eager hands toward the few people who had managed to survive so far. Brienne of Tarth and Jamie Lannister, along with Brienne’s squire Podrick were pinned on the far-side, swarms of cold bodies pushing against them as they hacked whatever they could. On a pile of bodies yet to rise, Tormund Giantsbane was roaring as he rose his axe and brought it down on ten heads at the same time. Samwell Tarly and Davos Seaworth were on the verge of disappearing under the black hoard and in the middle of the fighting, facing off against Daenerys Targaryen’s undead dragon was a lone figure. 

Jon Snow. 

A feeling alike the sinking of stones hit the bottom her stomach, as it almost forced her to keel over sick. If this was any other time, Sansa might take this opportunity to reflect on what an idiot her brother was. 

No, her cousin. But he will always be her brother, no matter what name he goes by. She thought it would take a while to process the fact, but it seems she might not be able to get the chance. 

“ **JON!** ” she screamed, wanting to both tear his head off and drag him out of the dragon’s sight. Jon turned his head shocked, not expecting his lady sister – cousin - to be standing in the midst of battle. He glanced back at the dragon, took note of it’s rearing of head and the intent to kill in it’s eyes. He realized in that moment that he wouldn’t be able to make it to Bran, not with the dragon so close and the entrance to the godswood so far. 

Jon looked at Sansa again and saw the moment she realized too, what was about to happen. 

“ **Get to Bran!** ” 

He turned back to the dragon and roared, raising his sword high. 

As much as Sansa wanted to stay, to tell him to run, she knew she had to go. She ran. 

She heard the dragon roar and heard Jon’s die as heat engulfed the courtyard. She raced towards the entrance to the godswood and ducked down at the sight of pale figures gathered beyond. She faced the courtyard and felt her eyes draw towards the dragon, it’s attention now away from the burning corpse of what she assumed to be her broth-cousin. No, her brother. Until the very end. 

Tears fell down her soot covered cheeks as a flash of silver caught her eye and she found herself staring at the sight of Daenerys Targaryen fighting alongside Jorah Mormont, until he too fell to the ground. She and the Dragon Queen felt the same in that moment as grief threatened to consume them both. But Sansa did not have a dragon like the Queen, who was guarding her back nor did she have the luxury of time to mourn. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and steeled herself, trying to accept the fact that she probably wouldn’t walk back out of the godswood again. 

She gritted her teeth and ran around the corner, expecting to meet death by the dozens. 

What she did not expect was to find it empty. 

She eased forward, her dagger raised and looked around. Her hands shook, her teeth chattered, her body shivered in fear and anticipation. 

After finding nothing in the darkness, she continued on until she saw movement under the tree that branched over the godswood like a mother protecting her children. She choked back a cry as she took notice of the three bodies under the tree. 

She raced forward and fell on her knees. Theon Greyjoy lay before her, half sprawled on the base of the tree, the remnants of his wooden bow sticking from his chest and the bodies of her younger siblings dragged onto his lap. His eyes met hers, eyes that reminded her of the Shivering Sea now bright with tears as they looked at her with guilt. Eyes that begged her to forgive him. Sansa’s own eyes fell to his chest wound and the wood sticking out of it, glistening in blood. She knew by the red liquid dripping from his lips and the tremors from his body that a wound like that would not be able to be healed. She saw the blood on the snow beneath them and the trails that led back in the direction she came. 

_He had crawled. After getting wounded so badly, he still crawled. For them._

____

Sansa once remembered when she spat at him, accusing him of not loving her siblings, back when she thought that he had killed Bran and Rickon and that Ramsay’s mutilation of his person was justified. 

____

She wrapped her arms around her sister’s still body, careful to ignore the purple bruising around Arya’s neck and the cold, clammy touch of her skin, pulling her so that she lay on her chest. She pretended that her little sister was just sleeping, and at any moment she would wake up and start complaining about Septa’s boring lessons. With one hand, she stroked Bran’s hair from where it rested on Theon’s lap and the other hand wrapped itself around Theon’s. She lay her head on his shoulder and listened to his shuddering breaths. 

____

“It’s okay. You protected them. You stayed with them. You did your duty. You are forgiven”. 

____

It felt like she had repeated those words for hours. Salt tinged her lips as streams fell from blue ocean eyes that focused on the hair kissed by fire. That fiery hair was a source of intrigue when he first came to Winterfell as Ned Stark’s ward. It later became a kind of fantasy he knew deep down he would never live out but continued to indulge in from time to time. That hair, and the memory of her when he arrived in Winterfell for the last time – of her smile, soft and loving, of her embrace, warm and tender and of her eyes, full of forgiveness and content as they stared into his with what he thought – hoped- was some sort of affection – was the last thing he saw before he died. 

____

Sansa felt that moment through her bones but continued to lay her head on his shoulder, hold his hand even when it began to turn cold, stroking Bran’s hair and holding Arya’s body. Even when they entered the godswood once more. 

____

They walked slow and each step led to another person’s death. 

____

_One step._

______ _ _

Brienne and Jaime panted, exhaustion creeping into their aching joints, the blood and mud filling their mouths threatening to choke them with every lungful of air they breathed. Their swords cleaved through the air, but not as strongly as they once did. Podrick was the catalyst, as his shouts of shock and pain were devoured by the sounds of tearing limbs. Brienne’s face was splashed with horror and the blood of her squire, a man that once struggled to swing a sword now falling long after Westeros’s best swordsmen had joined the ranks of the dead. That shock cost her as her sword was flung away from her and she was pushed back into the wall, the dead grabbing and pulling, stabbing and chewing. Her hand, outstretched towards Jaime, was the only visible part of her and as his own sword was dropped in the muddy abyss below, he held her hand as they were feasted on by the army of the dead. 

______ _ _

_Two steps._

________ _ _ _ _

Tormund was still roaring, even when he fell. The lack of axe or any weapon did not faze him, his strength a formidable defense against the army of the dead. Until that too were gone, ripped from his body and gnawed on until his eyes glowed the blue of the dead rather than the blue of the living. Samwell Tarly had long since suffocated under the massive bodies that were once great warriors, his last thoughts being of worry for the wildling girl he fell in love with and the boy he risked his life to rescue. Ser Davos had fallen also, turning around expecting to see Tormund grinning madly but instead coming face to face with a dead man. His last thoughts were of the one person he treasured above all and how he thought maybe he would finally see her again. 

________ _ _ _ _

_Three steps._

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Missandei, Gilly and little Sam were quiet as they listened to the sound of battle, their hearts all seizing in fear for loved ones outside the stone tower in which they hid in. Daenerys’s advisor, translator and friend stood in front of the mother and son, a dagger that she has never learned to use clenched in a hand that never had the opportunity to use one. Somewhere deep inside, the place where she yearned for the warm sun and the calming waves of her home country, prayed she wouldn’t have to use it. But as the tower shook with the entrance of many bodies, she knew that she would have to. And that it would probably not make a difference in the end. As the footsteps drew closer, Missandei’s breath grew more haggard and Gilly’s sobs soon filled the room. Missandei didn’t have the heart to quiet her, knowing that it would do them no good. The door flew open and Missandei released a guttural sound that sounded more scream than battle cry until she was staring into the eyes of her lover, Grey Worm. His eyes did not stray further than hers and as he crashed into her, grabbing her to him. The doors swung open once more and the four of them were soon swallowed up, never to be seen again. 

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Four steps._

____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Gendry, Melisandre and The Hound all raced along the walls of Winterfell, the Hound acting as a shield. As they raced down the stairs, towards the godswood, Gendry took note of the faces he saw when he looked towards the ground. His heart leaped into his throat when he saw Ser Davos, or rather his corpse, turn towards them and felt his heart almost fall out of mouth when he saw the wildling named Tormund behind him, their blue eyes settled on the trio as they raced past. Gendry was eager to get to the godswood, the place Arya was headed to, according to the Red Priestess. The only reason he hadn’t left the witch in the halls was because she knew where the Stark girl went. But as the trio charged into the godswood and took in the scene before them, Gendry wished he never came here at all. For there, under the tree, was Theon Greyjoy’s body, Sansa Stark sobbing on his shoulder as her arms clutched two unmoving figures. It didn’t take seeing her to break him. It took seeing her sword, the one he had never seen her without, lying in the snow at his feet. And in between them and the trio, stood the Night King and his army. But he didn’t feel fear as he was forced to the ground beside The Red Priestess and the Hound. Nor did he feel fear when the Hound’s scarred head rolled towards him or the wine-red hair of the Priestess mixed with her blood. And he didn’t feel fear when a sword of ice gave a stinging kiss towards his neck. All he felt was empty. 

____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Five steps._

______________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Daenerys’s cries of agonizing grief echoed in the darkness. She didn’t process the sounds of battle dying off nor did she process her dragon, her precious Drogon, mourning Jorah’s death with her. If she did, she would have noticed his callous fingers twitch and tighten around the sword at his side. If she did, she would have seen his eyes open and fix on her, his icy cold stare not like one of love and devotion that came across his wary face when he looked upon his Queen for corpses don’t serve queens with a beating heart. He only had one master. And so, Daenerys Targaryen was so lost in her grief for her beloved knight that she didn’t notice his eyes were open until he shoved a sword through her chest, thus ending the Targaryen line right there. 

______________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Six steps._

________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sansa did not know of the fallen, how one by one her friends, family and allies were cut-down until the only living, breathing person amidst the hoards of the undead were her. So, as she listened to those slow, heavy footsteps come towards her, she clutched the bodies that had began moving beneath her tighter, closed her eyes and for the first time in years, she prayed. 

________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_From the Old Gods of the Forest,_

__________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_To the Faith of the Seven._

____________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Hear my plea._

______________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_To the Drowned God of the Narrow Sea,_

________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_And the Lord of Light._

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Hear my plea._

____________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_To the many-faced God,_

______________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_And the gods of all, old and new._

________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Hear my plea._

__________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The footsteps stopped and she looked up into the cold, dead eyes of Night. 

__________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Please, I have prayed all these years, for all matter of things._

____________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_For a prince, for love, for a knight, a savior, for death._

______________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

He raised his sword above his head, and she didn’t look away or flinch. 

______________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_For my father, for my mother, for my sister and for my brothers._

________________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

And as she eyed the sharp, glistening tip of the sword that was wet with the blood of her loved ones, she asked for one thing. 

________________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Now I pray, to go back to the beginning._

__________________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Those were the last words Sansa Stark thought of before the sword pierced her heart. 

__________________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_**The Beginning.** ___

__________________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	2. The Beginning

Sansa lunged up from the bed, clutching her chest which felt like it had been split open by ice. It stung, kind of like wading through a creek in the middle of winter. Except instead of arms and legs getting bitten by frost, it was her heart. Tears dampened her pale cheeks and sweat drenched her forehead, her hair and the nightgown she was clothed in. 

_Where am I?_

____

_Am I dead?_

______ _ _

_If so, why does death look like my old chambers in Winterfell?_

________ _ _ _ _

Sansa looked down at her clothes and found herself wearing a warm, white shift, one she hadn’t worn in years; since before leaving for Kings Landing with Father and Arya. If she had survived the battle, why in the world would someone stick her in her childhood gown? And why on earth would it feel like it still fit? 

________ _ _ _ _

_Something wasn’t right._

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

She didn’t think she was dead, because her heart was beating fast under her finger tips and she could breathe just fine. But she didn’t think she survived. No one could survive a sword through the heart. 

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Just as she was coming to ask a question that both unsettled her and gave her hope, the door to her chambers swung open and a small figure waltzed in, huffing and puffy, forgoing all modesty as she ripped off a dress. 

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Curse this _wretched _thing! Why can’t I wear breeches like the boys? _Because you’re a lady and ladies wear dresses and don’t concern themselves with the affairs of men _. Agh!”____

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sansa stiffened, her eyes glued on the grumpy girl who opened a chest and started scavenging through it, muttering in mocking tones. Although she wasn’t as tall as when she last saw her, nor did this girl look as dead as she last saw her, there was no denying it was **her**. 

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Arya?” 

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The girl whipped her head towards her and gave her a crooked smile. “Still in bed at this time of day? Septa won’t be singing you any praise today, Sansa,” Arya Stark mocked, turning back around to continue a hunt for a tunic and the trousers she kept hidden. 

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sansa’s heart leaped as she listened to Arya, her sister who was alive and – 

_____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Wait, did she say Septa?_

_______________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Oh, who cares?! If Arya’s alive than nothing else matters._

_________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sansa laughed as she ran over to her sister, crying as she held her tightly. “I am so glad you’re alive! Never scare me like that again!” Arya jerked out of her arms and turned towards her, looking up at in confusion and wariness, “What are you on about?” 

_________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sansa did not notice her sister’s apprehension and started ranting on about what happened, assuming Arya and Bran had been knocked unconscious. 

_________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Oi!” Sansa flinched, stopping mid-rant and finally noticing that her sister was not rejoicing with her. 

_________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Finally, all the pieces started coming together – very, very slowly. 

_________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

She became painfully aware of her sister’s appearance; her long braided hair, her young, childlike face and eyes that held a sort of longing and curiosity rather than the hollow, haunted eyes of someone who had killed for more than eight years. Sansa than took note of herself, of her childhood night gown, of her own braided locks and, as she looked into a looking glass, the face of a child untouched of horrors she still felt. 

_________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“You and your bloody mirrors. Rest easy sister, you’re still pretty. But be careful, I’m seeing some grey hairs,” Arya jested as she left the room, leaving Sansa to study her face. 

_________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

As soon as the doors closed, Sansa made quick work of relieving herself of her night gown before checking her back, stomach and thighs. And it was as she thought. Her bruises from her time as Ramsay’s wife were gone. Her scars from her time in Joffrey’s court were gone. Replaced with silky smooth skin. Sansa stumbled onto her bed and curled up in a ball as her thoughts ran rampant in her head. Not only was her body unscarred but it was young, a body of a child. Arya no longer looked like a ghost wearing masks but her old self once more. The self that died the day they left Winterfell. 

_________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

And it was then the words of her prayers came back to her. 

_________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_**The Beginning.** _

___________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

She gasped and quickly dressed herself, not bothering to style her hair. She flew down the halls towards the courtyard and felt her eyes burn once more as she looked around. It was her home. Thriving with people, warm with fires – from lamps and torches not bodies – and **intact**. She felt her hand fly to her mouth when she saw Ser Rodrick walk by with a few men, deep in discussion of war strategies and Northern politics. She felt her stomach drop when she saw Master Luwine muttering to himself, with a head in a book as he walked by and felt herself smile through tears as Arya ran by with Septa – Septa, who was beheaded by Joffrey in King’s Landing – on her tail. 

___________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

She was home. 

___________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

A home she thought lost many years ago. 

___________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

A home that shouldn’t be here. 

___________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Sansa, sweetheart?” 

___________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_No._

_____________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_It can’t be._

_______________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sansa turned around to face an older women, with hair darkened and faded with age but still hinting of it’s Tully red and blue eyes that didn’t glow or strike fear into her heart but nevertheless belonged to someone she thought dead. 

_______________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Mother,” she choked, jumping into her arms and sobbing into her chest, “You’re here.” 

_______________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Of course, I’m here, where else would I be?” Catelyn Stark said, confused by her daughter’s tears. 

_______________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

She felt someone come up behind her, and heard his voice ask in concern. 

_______________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Cat, is she alright?” 

_______________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sansa sobs ceased at once and she peeked her eyes over her mother’s shoulder to look at a tall, dark haired man who frowned down at her, looking her over for any injuries or signs of what caused his daughter such grief. He found nothing but Sansa’s eyes started leaking streams once more as she pulled out of her mother’s arms and into her father’s. 

_______________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Ned Stark stood stunned, for his daughter had not been so affectionate since she was a babe and he took a few moments before he rubbed her back soothingly, “Hush now, sweetheart, tell me what’s the matter.” 

_______________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I’m sorry, Father. I am so, so sorry. I was stupid and I should have listened to you.” 

_______________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Now, now whatever you’ve done, I’m sure it’s not that bad.” 

_______________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sansa pulled back to look into her father’s eyes and saw no hate, no disgust, no disappointment. Just confusion and concern. Then she realized. If this is truly the beginning, then nothing has happened yet. 

_______________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_King Robert has not been here, he has not asked for Father to be his Hand, not asked for my marriage to Joffrey and we have not left._

_________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_That means….._

___________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_It can be stopped……._

_____________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Everything can be stopped……._

_______________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

She detached herself from her father’s arms and smiled up at him through tears. 

_______________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Forgive me, Father. I had a bad nightmare. I must have got carried away with it.” 

_______________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Her father’s eyes softened in understanding as he patted her arm in comfort. 

_______________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Ah, I know what that’s like. No harm done, but it put you in quite a state. What did you dream of that was so horrible, child?” 

_______________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sansa blinked and internally panicked. 

_______________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Your death._

_________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Robb waging a war that led him to his death, alongside Mother._

___________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Sending Theon away, him betraying us all._

_____________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The list kept growing, all the events that she had to stop from ever taking place. All the events that she had to prepare for. All the events that she knew would have to happen. 

_____________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

In the back of her mind, something within her whispered, _Events that you can make happen for the better._

_______________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Sansa,” her father said, his concern growing, “Sansa, what is it?” 

_______________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Maybe instead of having to learn everything again, growing and hurting, she could cement herself as a player in the game of thrones early on. She would not be a pawn and it would not take her years to realize that. She wondered how she would pull off such a feat, for in this life she was but a child. She then remembered a story, that Old Nan used to whisper about before sending them off to bed. About the powers of the First Men, gifts that they possessed and supposedly passed down to their Northern decedents. She realized that she had one of the said gifts, although it was God-given rather than inherited by blood. She realized that she could start now. With a little bit of the truth wrapped up in a lie. 

_______________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Is King Robert coming to Winterfell, Father?” 

_______________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Ned flinched in surprise. No one knew yet, for the raven only came today. How on earth did his daughter know? 

_______________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Yes, dear one. In seven days’ time. Was this something you saw in your nightmare?” 

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Sansa nodded. _It certainly was the beginning of one._

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“What was so terrifying about King Robert’s visit? He may be a king, but he would not hurt you.” 

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Sansa resisted the urge to roll her eyes at that. 

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_A king of wine and whores, sure. It’s not him I’m worried about but rather his wife and her mad son._

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“It was a dream where he asked you to become his Hand. And asked for me to marry his son. You then took me and Arya to Kings Landing with you. At first, I was excited, for I really wanted to be a princess, but Prince Joffrey turned out to be cruel. After his father dies during a hunt, he becomes King and executes you.” 

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Ned forced himself to keep his face expressionless, even though his daughter’s words made his stomach clench. Robert had brought news of Jon Arryn’s death and his favor of Ned becoming his new Hand. He had also continuously hinted of joining their houses through marriage since Sansa was born. But his daughter should have no knowledge of that. 

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“After he executes you, Robb goes to war to get me and Arya, who are imprisoned there.” 

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Sansa caught herself on her elder brother’s name, suddenly realizing if her mother and father were alive, that meant him, and the rest of her siblings, would be too. 

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“Go on,” her father urged, fearful of how this dream ends. _It was time for these gifts to appear._

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“Robb and Mother are killed, their bodies desecrated and left in a river. Rickon dies too, surrounded by arrows and flayed men. Bran is crippled, his body the nest of ravens and whispers. Jon dies and comes back, resurrected by fire and red hair. And when me and Arya finally return to Winterfell after years of walking wayward paths, we find it ruled over by an army of dead men with eyes of blue ice.” 

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Her father fell silent as he pondered what her dreams could mean, wondering if the tales told by Old Nan when he was a child, of greenseers, priestesses and the dead could have some truth. 

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He decided not to fret about it, instead planning for Robert’s arrival and if Sansa’s dream should come true, he shall deal with it then. He patted her on her head and brought her close again. 

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“That sounds awful. I’m sorry you had to see such horrors, even if they are just in your dreams.” 

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_If only they were mere dreams._

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“How about having a nice, hot meal. You can miss out on your lessons today, but do not expect it to happen again, is that clear?” 

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“Yes, Father.” 

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He smiled down at her, “Good girl. Now off with you.” 

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Sansa beamed and started walking in the direction of the Hall, mentally drawing up her plans. She did not expect her father to give her time to get over her ordeal, but she was thankful for this gave her time to figure out how to change the future. But first a nice, hot meal. By the Old Gods, she has not tasted a good meal for months. When the Dragon Queen and her army came to the North, Sansa had to ration the supplies she already divided into even smaller groups meaning less food, and feasts were out of the question. But breaking fast back before everything went bad, now sounds like breaking fast with the Gods. 

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She was so caught up in her hunger that she did not pay attention to where she was going until she bumped into a hard chest. 

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“Sansa?” 

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_By the Old Gods and the new, I had hoped._

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Sansa looked to her left to see Robb, tall, dark and looking just as she had last seen him. Her brave and noble brother who would play knights and princesses with her when she was a little girl. Beside him was Jon, young, dark and just as handsome as Robb, if less confident with his shoulders slouched and his clothes worn. 

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_Both alive._

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_So that means….._

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Sansa took note of the scent first. The smell of sea salt and wood that, despite having left the islands years ago, still stuck to his flesh and clothes like a second skin. Then she felt the dark leather of his vest that was cold to the touch and beneath her fingers the lines of a sigil. 

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_The Kraken, the crest of House Greyjoy._

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“Easy there, Lady Sansa, as much as I am flattered by the attention to my body, I must protest for I do not wish to die today.” 

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Her head jerked up and she saw the ocean. 

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“Lady Sansa.” 

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The last time she saw the ocean was when she closed his eyes after that final breath. 

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“ _Lady Sansa _.”__

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That final breath that shook her to her core. 

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“ **SANSA!** ” 

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She jerked back hard like she had been slapped. Theon did to, staring at her in confusion. 

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“Are you alright, Sansa?” Robb asked, coming towards her. He took note of the tear stains on his little sister’s cheeks and felt his anger rise, “You’ve been crying?” 

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Sansa touched her cheek and blushed. 

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_Stop that! You have not blushed in years. You are not a silly thirteen-year-old child. You are a grown woman in a child’s body._

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“Ah…yes, I am in a bit of a state,” Sansa admitted, for if she denied it, Robb would just press her until she relented. _My brave, noble brother _, she smiled at the thought.__

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“Nothing to concern yourself with though, just a childish nightmare. I got swept away in it, I suppose.” 

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Robb chuckled, his shoulders relaxing now that he didn’t have to go fight someone for upsetting his sister. 

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Sansa savoured her brother’s warm, hearty laughter and looked at each of the men, only boys right now as she was only a girl. How the times will seek to change them. 

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_The times shall try, but I have my own plans._

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Determination ran through her at the sudden thought, and she felt herself straighten and awarded each of them with an affectionate smile, Theon and Jon both expressing their disbelief with widening eyes and stiffening spines. 

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_I will need all of my family here with me. And I will not let jealousy and resentment tear us apart again. Including Theon and Jon._

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_The Starks will play the Game of Thrones and this time they will win. ___

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	3. And So It Starts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone was brought to silence as the Lord of Winterfell stood up. 
> 
> “I have an announcement to make that is of the upmost importance. A raven came for me today from King’s Landing, informing me of the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn’s passing. His Grace, King Robert Baratheon is planning to travel here to Winterfell and will arrive in seven days time. Preparations for His Grace’s arrival will begin tomorrow but tonight we shall feast and celebrate the passing of Lord Arryn, Hand of the King and friend of the North. To Jon Arryn.” 
> 
> Everybody rose their cups in acknowledgement, “To Jon Arryn.” 
> 
> Sansa smiled grimly. _And so, it starts. ___

After taking her leave of the boys, she took her meal to her room where she grabbed a leather-bound book, given to her by her Uncle Benjen, who thought she might use it to record her experience and adventures. While she now sees it for a practical and thoughtful, not to mention an expensive gift, her past self-had taken it politely and later thrown it into the bottom of her chest, followed by a tantrum about how she would have rather jewels and gowns over a useless book. 

_Thank you, Uncle Benjen, for putting up with my exasperating self._

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Sansa opened up the book, her fingers stroking the leather and the detailed engravings of trees, the shadows of men and dire wolves racing across the cover. She wet her quill before drawing up a line of events she knew would come to pass. 

____

That took her half the day due to her stopping continuously to cry and process once again how she had a second chance. Once or twice, she caught herself thinking she might be dead but than decided that if she was dead, she wouldn’t be back in the body of her child self. 

____

She took a break from her writing to go fetch herself some food, feeling her stomach grumble as a reminder that although it felt like she had only been writing for a few hours, she had spent much more as the sun had passed overhead and now made it’s descent towards the west. Despite knowing she shouldn’t wonder, at least not until she had finished her planning and could afford to revel in the fact that her home, her family and friends were all still alive and well, Sansa couldn’t help but take her time as she headed to the Hall. Her cheeks hurt from the huge grin that spread across her face as she saw face after face of people that had either passed years back in her time or only just the day before. 

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_This is what Margaery Tyrell must have felt like all the time._

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Sansa softened at the thought of one of the only friends she had back in Kings Landing. Although Margaery used her charisma and her kindness to boost favour for herself and her house in order to achieve power and status, she felt like Margaery’s kindness towards her and her attempts to ease her suffering by planning to marry her to her brother Loras – despite Sansa knowing she would never find any love from the Knight of Flowers – was one of the only genuine gifts she was given during her time in court. 

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_Maybe I can stop her death too._

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Sansa walked through the doors and into the Great Hall, ignoring the cold feeling of déjà vu, realizing that for her, it was mere hours ago she had been running through these doors, a group of wights on her tail. That cold feeling disappeared into a thrilling, pleasant shock when she set eyes on the high table in front of her – where her family sat. Most of them anyway. 

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Jon and Theon were sitting at the table below them but somehow still managed to keep up a conversation with Robb who was sitting at Father’s right, with Arya and Bran piping in or laughing from Mother’s far left. Something about the way those two were separated didn’t sit right with Sansa in that moment and she felt her resolve build up and her body made the decision before her mind could even agree to it as she walked towards the empty seat next to Theon. The room went quiet and even though Sansa shivered with nerves – _the gods know why; she was a grown woman (at least she was back in her time) and had been bold enough to do all matter of controversial things _– she continued to pile her plate with food.__

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Taking a spoonful of the bowls contents – mutton chops and vegetable soup – she slurped up the hot liquid and almost moaned at the flavor of childhood nostalgia. Genuinely interested in her food, Sansa forgot about the effect her actions would have on her family until Theon cleared his throat from beside her. 

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_Oh right. How do I proceed with this?_

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“Lady Sansa, why are you sitting down here today?” 

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Theon tried to sound nonchalant and amused, but Sansa could tell he was just as confused and as curious as everyone else, wondering why a noble lady would deign to sit with a bastard and a son of a rebellious traitor. Sansa glanced around. She knew that her actions would raise a few eyebrows, but she didn’t predict for everyone to be looking at her like they were doing now. She felt her stomach knot with the realization that for these people, for her family at this point in time, sitting with these two was very strange and below her station. Something akin to anger bubbled in her stomach at the thought that her own blood and the blood of a nobleman was thought so low that it was unthinkable she would sit and dine with them. With a boldness that past-her, the young Sansa from the time she was from, was never capable of, she cocked her head at Theon and gave him a teasing smile. 

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“Enjoying a meal, Lord Theon, why are you sitting down here today?” 

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Sansa heard her mother gasp and saw her father frown at using Theon’s title but she didn’t shift her attention away from the boy next to her as he studied her closely for Theon had never heard Sansa speak that way before nor did he recognize the defiant look in her eyes that dared him to question her more. He found that the glittery look of mischief suited her well and returned it with his own crooked smile. 

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“I suppose I’m doing the same. Continue on then, don’t let me interrupt you.” “Thank you. What were we laughing about before I joined you?” Now this possibly confused everyone that much more for Sansa had never shown any interest in any conversation outside the ones she held with Jeyne Poole and the other young girls who fanned themselves over knights, princes and the hope of someday becoming the damsel they would save from danger. 

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_Oh how pathetically naïve I was. Thank the gods, I am putting a stop to that right now._

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Theon, once again, was the first to get over his surprise and let out a chuckle. 

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“Robb was remarking on Old Nan’s stories, the ones she used to tell us right before she put us to bed.” 

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Sansa smiled at the memory, “Ahh and what was Robb remarking exactly?” 

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Theon looked towards her elder brother and gestured to her, “Go on, tell her what you said.” 

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Perhaps he was too emboldened by Sansa’s casual treatment of him, for Theon forgot that he shared an audience that was the Lord and Lady of Winterfell. He heard Lady Stark release an angry noise and saw her open her mouth as if to reprimand him until Lord Stark placed a hand on hers as a way to silence her protests for the Lord of Winterfell was very curious about the strange turn of events. 

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Robb, after making sure his mother was not going to punish Theon for his familiar tone, grinned at his younger sister and friend, “I said that, when I was little, I used to think that Old Nan was a white walker herself and would sneak into our chambers to get us to join the army of the undead.” 

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By the end of his sentence, the children had forgotten the earlier strangeness and were all left in hysterical laughter at Robb’s ridiculous childhood fear. 

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But the Lord and Lady did not and while Catelyn Stark was very much opposed to the whole situation – as she firmly believe it was unlady-like and beneath her daughter to sit with the sons of traitors and whores – her husband did not want to interrupt whatever was unfolding before his eyes for it was not clear whether it was something for the better or for the worse. 

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Meanwhile, the other children wanted to also sit with the trio and all made their way down from the high table. The people next to Jon and Sansa moved over, making room for Robb, Bran and Arya, the latter placing herself next to Jon while the brothers sat down next to Sansa. Everybody in the hall looked to their Lord for their orders and went back to the meal at his subtle nod. 

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“ _Ned _,” Catelyn hissed in his ear, her eyes glaring at the table her children moved to, “You can not let them act like **this**!” __

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“Act like what, Cat? Right now, they are just sitting down at a table, sharing a meal,” Ned argued, his eyes not leaving the children who all laughed at a joke Theon told, “What did we expect would happen, Catelyn? We should have seen this coming, when we brought them up together, taught them together.” 

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“And you would remember that I was very conflicted upon you making that decision.” 

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“Aye, but it was my decision as it is now to let the children enjoy their meal in peace.” 

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“Ned –“ 

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“Sansa was very upset this morning, as you know. Let her enjoy herself. It pleases me that she is spending more time joking with Arya for once instead of them fighting.” 

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Catelyn huffed, knowing there was no arguing with him and turned her angry glare onto the two boys that felt it bore into their heads but ignored it as they always did. 

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\- 

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Sansa left the Hall after finishing her meal, bidding farewell with a hug for Robb, Arya and Bran, a kiss on the cheek for Rickon who was squirming on his mother’s lap and a smile to Jon and Theon. She ignored the horror on her mother’s face and smiled at her father, curtseying before taking her leave. 

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_Don’t know why I bothered with etiquette after all that._

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Still, despite knowing she was definitely not in her mother’s favour now, she still couldn’t help the joy that surged within her from sharing a meal with her family without discussing war strategy and having the knowledge of upcoming battles looming over them. She was reminded that though they were not at war now, it would come to that eventually. Even if she did accuse Petry Baelish of poisoning Jon Arryn and attempting to start civil war to gain power, her words held no value. The best thing to do now was make sure that the Starks came out of the upcoming war alive. Which meant that she had to plan ahead. 

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_This will probably take me all day to accomplish. It will be worth it though._

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_To prevent Robb from making the mistakes he did and giving him a chance to rule the North._

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_To stop her mother’s scorn and narrow minded-ness from mistrusting possible allies in foreign lands rather than putting all their trust in their bannermen._

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_To prevent father’s honor leading him to an early grave._

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_To keep Bran and Arya from selling their souls for their land._

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_To make sure Rickon doesn’t die before he gets the chance to live._

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_To keep Jon from dying for a cause he didn’t truly believe in._

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_To keep Theon from betraying them and paying the iron price for it._

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_And to make sure the North prospers under the rule of The Wolves of House Stark._

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_She had a long day ahead of her, dedicated to planning every single way she could save her family from repeating mistakes that everyone would end up paying for._

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__*************************************************************************************_ _

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Fortunately, she managed to finish her writings before dinner and once again made her way to the Hall for the third time that day, a small part of her not quiet believing she was really here. Maybe after waking up the next morning, she would finally believe all of it to be real. 

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Once again, she choose to sit next to Theon and was quickly joined by her other siblings. 

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“Arya, if you keep running around in front of Septa in those breeches, she’s going to sew a dress onto you and burn all the pants in Winterfell,” Robb playfully warned his youngest sister, grinning as she made a face at the thought. 

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“Good luck to her than. If she does that, none of the men in Winterfell will be wearing pants,” Arya responded smartly, sipping her dinner cheekily. 

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“Ah, imagine Septa’s face upon realizing she burned the pants of the Lord of Winterfell!” Bran laughed, causing Arya to spit out her food back into her bowl in laughter at the image of her father walking around angrily trying to find his pants. 

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The rest bellowed out their own laughter at Arya’s reaction, the loudest surprisingly being Jon’s, who was usually the quieter and more brooding of the children. 

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“I don’t think she would care at all. Did you see her this morning chasing after you? I thought she would give you a right good beating for that!” Sansa grinned knowingly at Arya, who grinned back in pride. 

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“The point I was trying to make was that she would have to catch me in order to give me a right good beating.” 

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“I can see her staring holes into your head. Watch out, Little Stark for Septa might ally with Old Nan and plot for you to become part of the army of the dead,” Theon teased, laughing at Arya reaching over to lightly punch him in the arm, “Oh no! She’s already one of them! Everyone run for your lives!” 

______________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Run you should, Theon Greyjoy, for I will come for you first,” Arya replied, mimicking coming at him. 

______________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sansa giggled at their antics as she sipped her soup. Everyone was brought to silence as the Lord of Winterfell stood up. 

______________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I have an announcement to make that is of the upmost importance. A raven came for me today from King’s Landing, informing me of the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn’s passing. His Grace, King Robert Baratheon is planning to travel here to Winterfell and will arrive in seven days time. Preparations for His Grace’s arrival will begin tomorrow but tonight we shall feast and celebrate the passing of Lord Arryn, Hand of the King and friend of the North. To Jon Arryn.” 

______________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Everybody rose their cups in acknowledgement, “To Jon Arryn.” 

______________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sansa smiled grimly. _And so, it starts. ___

______________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	4. The Needle and Thread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Sansa exchange words on what it means to be lady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't updated in a while. This chapter is short but I hope that it will tide you all over until I get the motivation to edit and update the next chapter. Please leave a kudos and comment about what you think x suggestions and feedback are always welcome!

Sansa woke up the next morning, in her chambers, in another nightgown from her childhood and sighed in relief. 

_Now I truly believe it’s real._

With no time to waste, she got herself ready and presentable and set off to the Hall. Today, she will begin her preparations, starting with her family. She was supposed to return to her lessons with the Septa but would not spend the time mindlessly making random garments and pieces of cloth that would be of no use. She would finally use her skill with a needle to create garments designed for greater things. 

She broke fast with her siblings and Theon in what she planned to be their new seats, making sure to give many opportunities for Jon to be included in the conversations. She also made sure to become more familiar with Theon, despite the impropriety of her actions and how her mother would react to them. Theon, to his credit, did not mind the new way Sansa approached him and seemed pleased with her attention. Robb, Arya and Bran did not seem to either notice or care about Sansa changing many things and enjoyed the newfound closeness and familiarity they created with the two boys. 

After breaking fast, the children all went on their way to attend their respective lessons. The older boys would go with Bran to Ser Rodrick, who had tasked them with teaching the young boy to master the bow, while the girls headed in the direction of the Library Tower where they would meet with the Septa to learn embroidery, poetry, literature, history and linguistic skills in order to become ‘proper ladies’. Sansa was always the muse for Septa’s songs of praise, the older women insisting that Sansa was a highborn lady through and through. Although Sansa had always loved being told she was an exceptional young lady when she was younger, her new self already knew she had all the qualities of a highborn lady and did not care one way or another if the Septa thought she was or was not. She had learned over many years that being a Lady did not mean creating the best embroidery, memorizing the lines of poetry or learning every language there was to know. Being a Lady meant she had to be passionate, strong and consider her people before herself. 

Despite this, she still found herself looking forward to her lesson as she had a task to complete that would include her formidable skills – _needed or not_ – with a needle and thread. Arya, on the other hand, was not so eager for their lesson. It was common knowledge that she did not possess the natural skill of etiquette or embroidery as her elder sister nor did she possess the interest or tolerance of learning such skills, which she emphasized continuously to Sansa as they approached the Library Tower. 

“I don’t understand. If she is aware of my distaste for being a lady, why does she insist on having me attend lessons on making finery and wearing gowns?” 

“She may hope that one day you may be struck with a rock and wake up with the interest of acting like a proper lady?” Sansa joked as she walked up the stairs. 

“Anyone with half a brain knows that will never happen. Besides,” Arya flashed a grin at her sister, taking the stairs two at a time, “if I were struck with a rock, the first thing on my mind wouldn’t be wearing a bloody gown.” 

Sansa ignored her sister’s inappropriate language and glanced up at her in amusement, “Oh?” 

“The first thing on my mind would be tracking down the one who dared strike me with a rock and beat them into a bloody pulp.” 

“Of course, silly me. I did not think of that,” Sansa replied sarcastically, a small smile playing on her lips. 

Arya tsked mockingly, “Let us not repeat that mistake again.” 

“On that I won’t, dear sister.” 

They walked on, Arya taking the steps two at a time while Sansa looked up after her, already tired of the climb. They had made perhaps three more steps when Arya turned around, a serious look on her face. 

“Sansa?” 

“Yes?” 

“Why can they not accept that I do not want to become a lady?” 

Arya’s tone was desperate and genuinely confused, not yet understanding the social expectations and limitations of being a female. Arya never really grasped the reasons behind a women’s duties and responsibilities. Sansa did not know why, either, but knew that although there were many exceptions to the rule – women that she had faced, women that were her allies and friends and the girl beside her who would become a warrior in her own right – those women had to face many challenges and obstacles, and centuries of tradition that stated men were superior than women. Sansa knew it was untrue but knew that arguing would get them no respect. The only way for a woman to gain respect was to get it the way men do; killing, conquering and facing death in the face without fainting. Alas, she knew her sister’s spirit and knew that telling her to wait without giving her something to wait for would do not good. She took her sister’s hand and pulled her close so that she could say what she had to say without being overheard. 

“They cannot accept that you will not become a lady because in their minds, a highborn girl must always become a lady for that is their duty; to learn, to marry, to bore and to raise. They live in the past, not knowing that wolves have no need for fine silks and good manners. What wolves need is the knowledge of how to strike their enemies, work in a pack and to protect their territory from those who wish to invade it. Fine silks would get in the way of that, don’t you think?” 

Sansa saw her sister’s face pull-back in shock and resisted the urge to smirk at her rendered speechless. Prim and proper Sansa, the one that Arya had always known to that point and the one that Sansa used to be in her past life, would never dare entertain the notions of swords and knighthood that ran around in her younger sister’s head. She felt her heart burst with joy at the small spark of hope that lit her sister’s grey eyes and felt herself soften at the small smile that appeared on her youthful face. 

“If you think this, why is it that you waste your time on these lessons?” 

Sansa smiled, “While I admit that wolves need to know how to fight and defend their home, it cannot be denied that skills such as diplomacy, charisma and etiquette go along way also.” 

“How is that?” Arya questioned curiously. 

“Say we are not fighting and protecting our land but rather we are looking for allies or hoping to distract our enemies while we deal out our plans. We will not win them over with bloodshed or sharp blades nor will we trick them by striking them in the face or attacking them head on. For that, we need pretty words, knowledge of their fears, hopes and desires and good manners that they would see as submissive and passive – never knowing we would strike until they had already been struck down.” 

Arya frowned, “Father says there are no honor in tricks.” 

Sansa rolled her eyes internally. 

_And yet we must remember the real reason he was able to take down Ser Arthur Dayne during Robert’s Rebellion._

“He is right. There is no honor in tricks. We should always try to live honorably. But if we must choose between honor and our family’s survival, I will always pick the latter.” 

Arya hesitated for a moment before nodding her agreement, “I will too.” 

The younger girl ducked her head and shifted her feet, “I’m not good at speaking pretty or manners. I thought I would leave that to you.” 

Sansa smiled and leaned down to whisper conspiratorially , “That is perfectly fine. I will be the diplomatic wolf, that will don sheep’s clothing and fool them all with my pretty smile and my silver tongue. You can be the warrior wolf, that will dress in the blood of our enemy’s and brandish your steel claws in order to make them retreat in fear of being gutted.” 

Arya’s eyes sparked in delight at the prospect. Sansa remarked about how her sister might not have always been haunted and hollow, she has always possessed a lust for blood that used to scare her. Now she knows that it is the true nature of all wolves and she will need it for what’s to come. 

“But until that time comes, you must suffer the needle and thread.” 

Arya groaned. Her sister had made her heart soar with the thoughts of wolves. Now she must face the needle once more. Sansa laughed softly, taking pity on her sister as she leaned down to whisper in her ear. 

“Early tomorrow morning, we can sneak into the training area and commandeer a bow and quiver. They are weapons that Ser Rodrick would be less likely to miss and would be easier to practice with. In a few days’ time, we may also attempt to convince one of the boys to teach us how to use the swords. How does that sound?” 

Her little sister perked up once more and almost bounced into the room in joy, drawing the suspicious gaze of the Septa as Arya buzzed in her seat. Sansa smiled at the girl, and felt like not only had she succeeded in becoming closer with her previously estranged sister, she now taught her the value of pretty words and good manners and how sometimes a wolf needed to dress as a sheep – or a lady – in order to get what it wants. 

_And I will do anything to get what I want. I am not a sheep no more. Nor am I a Little Dove. I am a wolf._

Sansa begun threading her garment, each needle through the cloth another addition to her plans that would cover the years to come. Once she began on a new piece of cloth, she would begin a new plan incase the old one did not work. She had been taught many times throughout her previous life that the plans one first make rarely ever work out they want them to. 

Sansa was determined to make sure her plans work out. One way or another. Even if she had to do it herself.


	5. The Challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I cannot do what you ask me. We would both suffer serious repercussions.”  
> He sighed and pulled away from her, preparing to trek back to his own chambers. Until he heard her voice behind him, defiance tinging her words.  
> “Not even for a wager.”  
> He paused. She smirked.  
>  _Irresistible_  
>  "What kind of wager?"  
>  _Victory_  
>  “The kind of wager where I get what I want, and you get to say you were beaten by a girl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everybody enjoys this chapter! Please let me know what you thought in the comments! Reminder that criticism, feedback and suggestions are both welcomed and deeply appreciated!

For three days and three nights, after sitting with their siblings and Theon at the lower table and enjoying a joke and a meal, Sansa and Arya would retire to their chamber where Sansa would continue creating her garments and Arya would watch and ask questions. 

The following dawn, they would slip out of their chamber to practice archery. Arya, it seemed, was a natural, having only failed twice before having an arrow meet the bottom half of the mark they set, a wide tree in the godswood. Sansa, on the other hand, found difficulty pulling back her arrow therefore it only flew halfway before falling. The older girl felt disappointed at her lack of skill but was determined to not give up. 

Although she stood by what she said to Arya, how her younger sister was more suited to war and bloodshed while she was more interested in diplomacy and strategy, she _did_ feel the need to learn how to at least use one weapon. She knew that pretty words and manners would not always save her, and she would not let her lack of skill be the reason she had to live through past horrors again. 

The girls would take turns until the sun rose behind the Keep before putting away their borrowed weapon and scurrying to their chambers to change. 

\- 

Three days before Robert Baratheon was supposed to arrive in King’s Landing, Sansa and Arya met the boys at the stable when they returned from Bran’s horse-riding lessons, mischievous smiles on their faces. Sansa’s eyes glimmered when they met Theon’s, whose mouth twitched in curiosity at what the Stark girls' failed to hide behind their backs. 

Robb got down from his horse, grinning at his sisters, “Good morn. What brings you two to the stables?” 

Arya smiled up at her older brother, “Sansa made you something during Septa’s lessons. We wanted to give it to you.” 

With a nod from Sansa, Arya presented the eldest Stark a wad of material, grey with dark fur lining. Robb’s forehead creased as he unraveled the material to reveal a cloak with a black stitching of the Stark crest. He met Sansa’s gaze, Tully blue, that the two had in common, staring back in pride. 

“Sister, this is beautiful. You honor me so,” he stepped forward and pulled her into an embrace. 

Arya smirked cheekily, “ _Actually_ , Sansa made us all cloaks, so the honor is to us all.” 

The younger Stark girl handed another cloak to Jon, this time in black with matching fur. Jon’s eyes widened as he looked at his, thought to be, half- sister. 

“For _me_?” 

Arya gave him a look, “Of course for you, silly. I didn’t hand it to the bloody horse.” 

Robb laughed and clapped Jon on the back. The dark-haired boy stared at his cloak, the finest clothing he had been gifted in his eyes, before muttering out a gentle, “Thank you, Sansa.” 

He startled backwards as she hugged him also, whispering in his ear, “You’re our brother. Remember that.” 

She pulled back and turned to Bran and Arya, not before seeing Jon’s small smile as he fingered the white stitching of a wolf with red eyes. She grinned to herself. 

_Our wolves will be joining us soon. This time the pack will survive and stay together._

Sansa grinned in delight as Bran puffed his chest at his cloak, a smaller version of Robb’s with his wolf portrayed howling at the moon, her little brother vowing never to get it dirty – although Sansa did not dare have hope of him keeping that promise. Arya snorted at her brother and grinned smugly at her own cloak, black like Jon’s per her request and with the silver stitching of a wolf with a sword in its mouth. 

The red-headed girl noticed how Theon stood separated from the group and saw how his jaw clenched and his eyes flashed with jealousy and bitterness. She detached herself from her siblings and walked over to him, a wad of black material in her hands. She didn’t add fur to this cloak, knowing that if he ever wore it the Iron Islands, his people would not take too kindly to it. 

_“I thought I would be welcomed back, a hero and a son, their lord. Instead I was greeted coldly, an outsider to my own flesh and blood. He already had an heir and did not take to kindly to me walking in expecting them to give me back my title and home. I don’t know why I expected any different. We take what is ours, that is our way. I did not take. I did not earn. That was my mistake.”_

She remembered his words, that sad acceptance she heard so unlike the arrogant tone he used in their childhood. Although at the time, they had been far from children. They had been frozen stiff in the middle of winter on the run from hounds and trying to find a will to go on. His telling of finally seeing his father for the first time in years had been his way of making sure she didn’t succumb to the cold. Or maybe he was trying to make sure he himself didn’t succumb. She did not know. All she knew was that if he was to stay loyal to their house and not betray them in proving himself to his father, he would have to gain some respect of the Ironborn. 

Sansa smirked at him, “You didn’t think I forgot about you, did you?” 

She passed him his cloak and nodded at him to open it. He did and she watched as his piercing blue eyes took in the golden kraken in the middle of the black material, his family crest. If Theon Greyjoy’s eyes shone suspiciously, or his breath caught in his throat when he replied with a husky, “Thank you”, she did not mention it. 

Sansa merely grinned at him and replied, “You are very welcome, my Lord,” before rejoining her siblings, Theon only a moment behind her. 

The red headed Stark girl giggled softly at Rickon’s reaction to his cloak, the material dwarfing his small body so that only his light brown curls peeked out from beneath it. His own dire wolf was black with green eyes as it stood with its pack; his cloak, unknown to everyone but Sansa, a tapestry of the future that was soon to appear in days’ time. 

A future that she was determined to save. 

Back in her time, one by one their dire wolves fell until only Ghost remained. She remembered Arya told her once that Nymeria had appeared to her on her journey north with a pack of her own. It could not be denied that while her younger sister had been relieved that her friend had survived those years, there was audible regret of their time separated. 

If things went the way Sansa desired, none of them would ever have to die. And none of them will be separated. The wolves of the North will never leave their home without pack ever again. 

\- 

“With your leave Robb, I will escort your lady sister back to her chambers,” Theon smirked, offering his arm to the Stark girl who smiled back at him. Robb looked on in amusement, shaking his head. 

“You may but make haste for I saw Mother ready to give Sansa the stern talking to that she has been waiting to give her for some time now.” 

Sansa sighed. She knew she would not be able to avoid her mother for much longer. 

_Maybe I can use Father as a shield._

That may be the best option she had so far, as it was made clear to her that her father did not share the same distaste for Sansa’s actions as his lady wife. Rather, he seemed to find her change of behavior more curious and _dare she say_ , pleasantly surprising. 

“Ah, we will take our leave of you then. Good night, Robb. My Lady, let us go.” 

Theon and Sansa chuckled at the banter, the formal words that the boys spoke sounding ridiculous. 

Before she went to Kings Landing, in her time that is, she always felt her heart flutter for men speaking the flower language. Now, after spending times with warriors, soldiers and wildlings who didn’t have a care of the stuff they said, it felt strange hearing boys speak in such a way. 

The two of them walked down the path leading to the Great Keep. It struck Sansa that she had never spent a moment alone with Theon when they were children. She supposed it was because of the impropriety of being alone with a boy unchaperoned, and the lack of interest she had in the son of a rebel when knights held her heart and mind. 

She now chastised her younger self, the self she was reverted back to, for not acknowledging him. She snuck glances at the boy as they walked and wondered how her younger self never noticed his handsome face or the way his tawny curls fell around his cheekbones. Or his eyes. Those piercing blue eyes that must have captured the Shivering Sea surrounding his homeland. 

His lips tilted up and he tilted his head to the side, those blue eyes sliding to hers in amusement as he caught her staring. 

_Seven hells, here we go._

“My Lady Sansa, were you just staring at me?” he smirked, as he watched the pink tinge spread across her cheeks. She could feel the burn of her blush and cursed him, wondering how long he had known she was watching him. 

“I was merely admiring the dirt mark on your forehead. It suits you, makes you seem very roguish indeed.” 

“What?” Theon licked his fingers and rubbed at his forehead before he heard a soft, feminine laugh and swung his head back to the girl, “Oh very clever, Lady Sansa.” 

“Why thank you, my Lord.” 

Sansa saw a hint of a smile on his face before he stopped them, the Great Keep looming over them. 

“Lady Sansa, may I ask you a question?” 

“You may, but I may not be so inclined to answer.” 

Theon looked down at her, those eyes of his capturing her, “What are you doing, my Lady?” 

“What do you mean?” she frowned. 

“I mean sitting with me and Jon, laughing and joking with us, avoiding your lady mother. What has changed to make you deign to acknowledge us?” 

She ducked her head, cursing her braided hair from preventing her to hide away from his inquisitive look. She huffed internally. 

_You’re not a cowed child, Sansa Stark. You are a grown woman and shall act like such._

She fingered the blue cloth of her evening dress, and finally looked up. 

“Because,” she started and smiled broadly, “I realized that while my duty as a lady, to my house and to my country, is important, my duty to family is very much more. And Jon is my family.” 

She stepped close towards him, propriety be damned, and placed a hand on his arm. 

“You are my family too, Theon Greyjoy.” 

Theon swallowed as he looked down at the younger girl, “I’m a Greyjoy and your father’s ward. No more than a hostage.” 

“To everyone else, yes. I will not deny they all look at you and see a leash tied to your father’s neck,” 

Sansa took note of his clenched jaw and the way his body stiffened at her blunt words, quickly placing her hands gently on the side of his face, “But not to Robb, or Arya, Bran and Rickon. Not to Jon. And not to me. To us, you are family.” 

Theon’s breath shuddered at her words, and she felt his face go taunt under her fingertips. She saw a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye and stepped back, letting her hands fall to her sides. If there was a flash of disappointment in the boy’s eye or a gasp that escaped his throat, she did not speak of it. Theon swallowed several times and Sansa allowed him that moment to compose himself. 

“I hope one day you realize that although you may be a Greyjoy, with iron in your bones and the salt water of the sea in your blood, you are also a Stark, with frost in your breath and the winter in your soul. You may speak the language of the Ironborn, and its rocky shores may call to you in your dreams, but you will always have Winterfell in your heart. You are a wolf in our pack as you are a kraken born from the Shivering Sea. You don’t have to choose. You are both in my eyes.” 

Sansa curtseyed and gave him a bright smile, before leaving him standing at the doorway to the Keep, feeling like the breath was knocked out of him. 

\- 

The next night, Theon once again requested to escort Sansa to her chambers. Robb once again shook his head in amusement. 

“One of these nights,” Robb warned, sighing in weariness, “Our mother is going to catch you two. And I am not going to get in the way of once of her stinging lectures.” 

Sansa and Theon glanced at each other before the young girl replied, “Brother, I would never ask you to risk yourself in such a way.” 

Theon clapped his friend on the shoulder, “But if you do decide to, as you are most loyal and noble, will you try to think of something better to talk about then the food at tonight’s feast?” 

The two children laughed as they walked off into the night, their friend and brother shaking his head knowingly. Sansa knew that her brother could see the look in her eyes as she talked to his friend. 

She had to admit, it had been there – in the back of her mind when she and him went their separate ways after he insisted that Brienne escort her to the wall, when she told Jon what happened and pondered on whether or not he made it to Pyke, when she saw Ramsay for the first time since her escape wishing that Theon was beside her but at the same time feeling relief he did not have to be in that monster’s presence for one more second. 

The thought of him had loomed over her heart when she sent Ramsay’s hounds to feast on their master, wondering if Theon would appreciate the poetic justice or if he would see a monster in her too. She imagined herself walking beside him as she visited the old crypts, down the halls of the chambers she was kept in when Ramsay had taken Winterfell – wondering continuously, I wish you were here so I didn’t have to face the ghosts of our past alone. 

Then he was there. Before her when he came to tell the Dragon Queen of his sister reclaiming the Iron Island, but of his arrival in Winterfell being he wanted to fight for Winter. For her. She couldn’t stand back anymore, only doing so out of respect for him, and when she finally enfolded him to her arms, feeling his tighten around her in response, she felt like she wasn’t alone at the mercy of ghosts anymore. If there was one person who understood the feeling of being at home and in a prison at the same time, it would be him. When they had sat outside with the rest of the soldiers, bowls in hand and blowing on their spoons, when they had looked at each other and smiled. It was solace. 

The content in his eyes, in that small smile that returned her own hesitantly, as if slowly figuring how to do so was all she could think about when he escorted her back to her chambers and bid her goodnight. As she watched from her window, him walking towards his men with his quiver slung over his shoulder and bow in hand. When he looked back up to her, holding her eyes for a moment before continuing on towards the godswood, where her brother waited for them. 

Here he was again, escorting her to her chamber’s and unaware of all the memories Sansa held of him. 

_Maybe we can make some new ones. Ones where we come together, not out of pain and terror but out of love and family._

She was hoping that her gift from that morning had made him more relaxed and agreeable to what she had in mind. A way to kill two birds with one stone. 

“You’re joking.” 

_It seemed not_. This was going to be harder than she thought. 

“I am not.” 

“Then you are unwell. The Sansa I know would never touch a weapon if she could not help it.” 

“The Sansa you knew would not sit with you at meals either. Or make you and Jon a cloak or even say you are family. I am not her. I have changed and soon enough, you will too. We all will. For there will come a time I will not be able to help grabbing for a weapon. And in that time, I will need to know how to use one. Consider yourself lucky I do not insist on you teaching me the ways of a sword although I do foresee the advantages of having a blade on me should I not have a –“ 

“What in the _**seven hells**_ are you rambling on about? Talks of a coming time when you would need to use a weapon?” 

It rattled Sansa, Theon’s outburst. While she had gotten used to his loud and rowdy laughter, she had not heard him talk to her like that before, showing just how worried her words caused him to be. She softened and pulled him into the shadows of the Keep, avoiding being seen or overheard as she placed a hand on his cheek. 

“Theon, war _is_ coming. I know it is. I need you to help me and my siblings prepare for it. I know, it sounds ridiculous. I know I am just a girl, who should not speak of the darkness of war. But I **feel** it. I see it in my dreams. I wake up, the echoes of screams still ringing in my ear. My screams. Arya’s screams. Bran’s screams. Baby Rickon’s screams. Theon, I don’t want to _ever_ hear those screams while I’m awake. So I am _begging_ you to **help** me. _**Please**_.” 

Her voice had grown more desperate the more she spoke, and she saw how it shook him to hear her, proud, proper Sansa **beg** for something. 

His own hands shook as they captured hers, bringing them close as he spoke gently, “I don’t know why these horrible words curse your lips. Nor do I know why such dark things haunt your dreams. But I know that although it worries me to hear your distress, I cannot do what you ask me. We would both suffer serious repercussions.” 

He sighed and pulled away from her, preparing to trek back to his own chambers. Until he heard her voice behind him, defiance tinging her words. 

“Not even for a wager.” 

He paused. She smirked. 

_Irresistible._

His deep voice glided back to her faintly, “What kind of wager?” 

_Victory._

“The kind of wager where I get what I want, and you get to say you were beaten by a girl.” 

Theon spun around fast before taking in the smug look on her face and realizing he just bit the bait. 

He stormed up to her, looking down fiercely. 

“The challenge?” 

Sansa craned her neck, ignoring the shiver caused by his dangerous tone to his words or the ways his eyes glittered. 

“Choose a mark in the godswood. Any mark of your choosing. Arya will be given a bow and a quiver full of arrows. If she can hit the mark, I win. If she doesn’t, you win.” 

He growled as he came closer, his voice now low next to ear, “The terms?” 

“If I win, you will teach me how to shoot as well as convince Jon and Robb to teach me and Arya how to use the sword and fight with our hands.” 

“And if I win?” 

“Whatever you want.” 

_That was a risk if I have ever heard one_. 

She had learned not to make such risks. But she had faith in her sister’s skill. 

Theon noticed too, the risk of those words and the power he now held. His blue eyes darkened, and his lips tickled her ear, “If Arya does not manage to meet my mark, you will give me _anything_ I want?” 

Sansa did not stray from his eyes, “ _Within reason_. What is it that you have in mind?” 

The young Greyjoy leaned back, his fingers stroking his chin in mock contemplation as he started circling her. 

“Let me think. What could I possibly want from Lady Sansa Stark? A clasp to go on my new cloak? Another cloak by her hand? A dance at the feast honoring King Robert’s arrival? A _kiss_ from her lips?” 

His eyes widened dramatically at the last suggestion. Sansa smothered a smirk at his antics. 

_I can see right through you, Theon Greyjoy._

“You may have it all, if Arya fails to meet your mark.” 

Theon jerked back at her word. He did not expect for her to agree with his suggestions. He studied her face and a crooked smile appeared on his own. 

“I accept those terms. I hope you understand than when Arya fails to meet that mark, you will be honor bound to uphold every one of them,” he said, suggestively. 

Sansa grinned back, “And I promise you, Lord Greyjoy, that when Arya _does_ meet your mark, I will consider being merciful and letting you have that dance.” 

She turned on her heel and walked over to the Keep, giving him a teasing little wave before disappearing inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay safe. Stay Healthy. Stay Aware!  
> Sending well wishes from AUS in these dire times!  
> Lots of love,   
> Lou  
> xoxo


	6. Where the Arrow Meets The Mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, my lady, are we to settle this wager once and for all, or?” the Greyjoy drawled, stepping closer so that their breaths warmed the others cheek, “Did you lead me out here for more _nefarious_ reasons?”
> 
> Sansa cracked a mischievous grin as sticks snapped from behind the trees that surrounded them, footsteps revealing the newcomer with a half – grimace, half -smirk sprawled across her face, alike to the face of someone that had heard something so depraved and yet so hilarious.
> 
> “Theon Greyjoy,” Arya Stark called snottily, scrunching up her face at him as she made her way to her sister, “Are we to begin this wager or are you two going to flirt all night long?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, i hope you guys will enjoy this chapter! I know you are all excited for Robert Baratheon's procession to arrive at Winterfell but I'm trying to build it up to that because there will be important stuff going down after he arrives so stay tuned! Also a reminder that all feedback, suggestions and criticism is welcomed and deeply appreciated!

Two days before King Robert was due to arrive, Sansa sat in the Library Tower alongside Arya and the Septa, who hummed in surprise when she observed the embroidery they had been working on thus far. Sansa’s was a piece of exquisite beauty, as any would be when made by her hand, a dress of her House’s colors. While it was infinitely simpler, and definitely less of a struggle to barter than the cloaks she made for her siblings and Theon, it cheered her heart immensely. 

_Arya’s_ embroidery, on the other hand, was the biggest shock to the Septa as it looked not half bad. The white stitching of the outline of a wolf was albeit rough and far from flawless, but it was clear what she was aiming for and how, with patience and effort, it could turn into something just as lovely as Sansa’s early pieces. If she wasn’t counting her luck at seeing such a sight, the Septa would no doubt question what was going on there that had Sansa deviating from her usual pieces, pieces of colored dye that would have her father’s brow raising and have people marveling from the frivolous sight. How Arya was actually _sewing at all_ and how she didn’t give up and sneak out of the tower mid-way through. 

Sansa decided that she would try something new for a change. The King and his entourage, including his wife and their children, would be arriving any day now and she was determined to do something about the sinking feeling she had in her stomach at the mere thought of facing the people who still haunted her in the midst of sleep. 

Cersei Lannister, and her _**bastard**_ of a son, Joffrey. 

She needed to arm herself, to have something with her that could give her as much strength as her family would. She wasn’t stupid enough to borrow a weapon for this event, not even her fear could enforce that kind of recklessness upon her. If she was found with such a wielding, she would bring a range of consequences upon her family. The least of which would be losing her reputation and the worst would be losing her head. No, she needed to promote the strength of their house, make Cersei second guess _ever_ striking at them. Make _**anyone**_ second guess underestimating them. She needed to prove that they were a house of wolves, not a house of old dogs and songbirds they could pluck. A simple dress, to honor her father and their house as it would seem to outsiders. But to her, it was armor. It was cut in a lovely enough style that it wouldn’t detract from her beauty, but it would also make it clear that while she was beautiful, she was _severe_. 

She had taken this lesson to also challenge her sister, to teach her something different from the lessons Septa seemed so devoted to drilling into their heads. Patience is an important lesson that she had a feeling would benefit her fast-paced sister for a change. Arya was always too bull headed, to eager to strike. Before, she possessed the restraint, the willingness to hunt her victims before butchering them. She had yet to learn that restraint. Sansa wasn’t willing to let her go years learning it with every painful lesson. It also helped that she could teach her sister to explore skills outside her comfort zone, for the familiar feel of breeches and swords would not always be there for her to fall back on. 

A commotion at the gates outside the tower had their heads whipping up from their work and the Septa huffing in frustration. The girls shared a smile before dropping their pieces on the table before them and racing down the staircase, giggling as they stumbled into each other. When they made it to the ground, they made a beeline towards the stables where the boys and their father were dismounting from their horses. Sansa shrieked in delight at the sight of the mounds of fur in their arms, followed quickly by her hand slamming over her mouth. Her face flushed red when she saw their heads turn towards her, and her face burned even more so when she saw Theon raise an eyebrow at her excitement. 

_What is the matter with you? You do not shriek, you do not flush and you do not act in such a way. By the Gods, you act like your thirteen again!_

Ignoring the voice that reasoned she _was_ thirteen again, she coughed and tried to cover up her eagerness as she joined Arya from where the girl was cooing at a pup that rubbed her nose from where it was held in Robb’s arms. Sansa smiled as Arya declared the pup Nymeria, and felt her heart warm as she took her from Robb and walked off towards the Keep, ignoring her father who tried to warn her that the pup was no mere dog. She turned towards the boys again and searched their arms for her small Lady before finding her blue eyes peeking out from where Theon had her wrapped in his cloak. 

Ned saw the look in Sansa’s eyes and stepped between them, a gentle but firm hand catching her outstretched arms. His daughter looked up at him with wide and questioning eyes and he smiled softly. 

“Sansa, this is no ordinary pup. She is a _direwolf_.” 

Sansa resisted the urge to scoff at the way he spoke to her, slow and clearly, as if speaking to a child. To him, though, she was one. 

She straightened and gave her father the most determined look. 

“I know, father,” she said firmly, never breaking eye contact, “Direwolves are rare and wild creatures. Feared and respected in the North but even more so here, in Winterfell, for they are the crest of our house. They are here for us, to protect us so that our house will not fall to ruin. I will care and protect my wolf in return. We have nothing to fear from them.” 

Without waiting for a reply, she turned towards Theon and held her hands out to take the pup. He stared at her with unease, looking between her and her father as if he didn’t know if he should give it over until he heard Ned Stark sigh. Sansa grinned and stepped closer, her hands sliding around the tiny body and pulling it close to her chest. She met the blue eyes of her Lady and pressed her nose into her fur, smiling as she heard her wolf sniff her hair. 

A drop of water wet her cheek and it took her a moment to realize she was crying. Lady, sensing her mistress’s sadness, pressed closer to her warm chest and nuzzled Sansa’s neck in comfort. The young Stark laughed to herself, a sound so light and happy that her father softened noticeably from where he was handing off the reigns of his horse to the stable boy. Robb and Jon exchanged looks of confusion and shrugged, not knowing what had gotten into their sister as of late. Theon just stared from where he stood, still in front of the girl and the wolf. 

He stared in wonder, for he had never, in his wildest dreams, imagined that the eldest Stark girl would ever hold a creature so wild, so fearsome, so tightly to her bosom. In fact, most of the things Sansa had said or done as of late was so unlike her, he found himself wondering if it _was_ really her before him. The Sansa he knew would never spare him a second glance, would never share a meal or a joke, would never indulge herself in a flirtation or a wager that risked being embraced in a dance or a kiss if it was with him. But here she was, grinning happily from between the furs of a mythical direwolf, eyes twinkling as if to remind him of the wager she made with him and all the things she wished from the wager. Of archery, swords and the art of combat. Of making presents for him, of dances in the Keep during meal times and of the risks of kisses stolen in secret. 

Sansa didn’t see all this running through the older boy’s mind, but she did see the way he was looking at her. Of the familiar adoration that she remembered from a man, a scarred and fractured man who overcame great loss and faced great pain alongside her. It made her drown her gasp into Lady’s fur before turning away from him, plastering on a smile that hid the beating drum that was her heart as she bid her father and brother’s farewell before joining Arya in the Keep. 

She cradled the wolf close to her, singing soothing words into Lady’s ear as she climbed the steps to her chambers. She relished in the feeling of her wolf, remembering her younger self with distaste. How when she was given Lady the first time, she held the wolf away from her. How she put her on a _leash_ and led the her around like she was a common dog. How she didn’t fight hard enough when her father took her away from her, or when she saw him later with flecks of blood on his tunic and knew that it was the blood of a creature that would have kept her safe if she had given her the chance to. This time, she was not the same, stupid girl. And she would make sure the pack stayed together. They would never be without one another _ever_ again. 

No wolf will ever stray from the pack without another to guard it’s back and heart. 

\- 

That night, as she and Arya entered the hall for supper, heads turned to see the great direwolves and the girls that walked beside them. Sansa and Arya both straightened under the attention, Arya cracking a grin at Nymeria while Sansa crafted her young face into that of indifference. She led Arya and the wolves to their place at the high table where the rest of family sat with the exception of Theon and Jon, the former whose eyes could be felt glaring into her from where he sat at the lower table. 

She stared ahead and waited for her father to give them leave to start eating. He didn’t waste time and before she dug into her own meal, she looked over and met the ocean eyes of the Ironborn. It was obvious by the frown on his face that he didn’t know why she suddenly went back to dining with her mother and father up at the High table, probably blaming himself it she had to guess. She sent him a small smile, to show that she had not forgotten Jon and him, nor had she forgotten their wager. 

Theon grinned, the frown and doubt dissipating with the warmth in her eyes and turned forward, eager to be done with his meal so he could move on to more _interesting activities_. 

\- 

Theon approached her once more as she was bidding Robb and Jon goodnight at the door and it was written in the space between him and the two siblings what he intended to ask. It was the same thing he had requested for the last few nights. 

“ _Sansa_ ,” Robb groaned in mock dismay as Theon extended his arm to the Stark girl, “What shall I tell Mother this time?” 

The Stark girl laughed, sliding her hand into the crook of the young Greyjoy’s arm as her eyes flashed at her brother, “Tell her what you will, Robb, maybe deign to ask her how her day has been?” 

Theon and Sansa shared a mirthful smile as they heard Robb’s muttering fade as they took the path to the Godswood. It was difficult to hear but she could have sworn she caught the phrases ‘small, red headed sister who finds herself so amusing’ and ‘cocky best friend who is too easily bested by his own amusement’ before they were drowned out with the soft breeze through the trees and the sounds of birds settling in for the night. They found themselves in front of the tall tree and turned to each other, the older boy with an eyebrow raised suggestively and the younger girl with her eyes rolled and her mouth curved up into a barely restrained smile. 

“So, my lady, are we to settle this wager once and for all, or?” the Greyjoy drawled, stepping closer so that their breaths warmed the others cheek, “Did you lead me out here for more _nefarious_ reasons?” 

Sansa cracked a mischievous grin as sticks snapped from behind the trees that surrounded them, footsteps revealing the newcomer with a half – grimace, half -smirk sprawled across her face, alike to the face of someone that had heard something so depraved and yet so hilarious. 

“Theon Greyjoy,” Arya Stark called snottily, scrunching up her face at him as she made her way to her sister, “Are we to begin this wager or are you two going to flirt all night long?” 

To his credit, he did not flush when the youngest Stark girl accused them of sharing an improper exchange and in fact took it quite in stride, turning his shoulders so that he leaned down to face Arya in both a challenge of the bow and the challenge of the mind. Arya raised a brow at this and gestured for him to get on with it. 

Theon sniffed, his grin turning cocky as he inspected the woods around them. He pointed at one spot, a high branch a good ways from where they stood, still within range to keep fairness but also within a height that would prove difficult to someone that had never held a bow, let alone shot it as he assumed Arya was. He leaned down so that she could see exactly where he was pointing before stepping back to lean against a tree, watching the girls with an expression that showed how likely he thought he was going to lose. 

Sansa came to stand beside him, smiling innocently as if she meant to enjoy the wager with him. She was not deceiving him, she did fully intend to savor how carefree and unburdened she felt with him and her little sister, indulging in a challenge so forbidden yet so casual. While this was a steppingstone in a greater plan, this activity was the most childlike she had felt in over eight years. She took this moment to relish in the chill of the air, knowing she could go back inside into her chambers alongside her child sister, start a fire in the fireplace and go to sleep knowing that, for now, she wasn’t surrounded by lions in a red den or, more accurately, a Red Keep. She wasn’t surrounded by swooping eagles that sought to dig their talons into the softest parts of you. She wasn’t surrounded by hounds bound by the blood lust that ruled their master. And she wasn’t surrounded by the cold, cold bodies of the dead. 

But that wasn’t the only reason she came to stand by Theon Greyjoy. It was so she could observe the stubble that was growing in nicely on a flush and boyish face that had not yet seen horrors that would cause it to grow haggard and to twist. She could see his lips from where she stood, a head shorter than him but still far taller than most girls her age. Those lips that curled up in a easygoing smile, one that wore no worries or fears despite the ever present threat of loosing his head for being alone with not one but two highborn girls unchaperoned. It was so she could stare at those eyes, such beautiful, ocean blue eyes. 

Eyes that lost their confidence when Arya Stark pulled back the bow string with the ease of an archer, with the strength of a full-grown male. 

Eyes that widened when she aimed it and didn’t lose herself to the strain of holding it taught until she breathed in. Deep. 

His eyes were trained on this girl who couldn’t get within an inch of a weapon without it being snatched away by her brothers nd a father who chuckled at her unusual fascination with steel. 

The girl, whose eyes were fixed on that _impossible_ target he created. 

Sansa threw her head back and laughed as Theon Greyjoy’s jaw dropped open when he watched Arya Stark, a highborn lady of barely eleven, release her arrow with a steady breath and meet the unattainable mark, white feathers glinting in the distance. 

He didn’t know it, but the two girl’s were almost as surprised as he was that Arya made the shot. For all her natural born talent and her practice, she hadn’t made it very far in terms of long-distance shooting. The red-headed Stark girl shot her little sister a look of pride before their male companion got over his shock, a look that unbeknownst to Sansa, made Arya’s heart grow alongside the bond she never thought she could create with a sister she never thought she could get along with. 

Arya beamed at Sansa before coughing loudly, bringing Theon to attention. He shook his head at her, still dazed. 

The younger Stark just grinned wolfishly, as she said, “It looks as if your pride has taken a hit, o’ mighty gambler. Luck has not smiled down on you this night and it seems to me that you owe us…what was it again, Sansa?” 

“I recall him vowing to teach us both archery. As well as convincing our brothers to not _only_ teach us swordsmanship, but to also teach us how to fight,” Sansa smirked, watching the color of the older boys face pale as he realized the trouble he had made with himself. 

She shrugged inwardly, _Should not have tried your luck with us, Theon Greyjoy._

“But,” he scrambled for a way to relieve himself of his terrible vow, “my ladies, you can’t _honestly_ expect me to do this. Your father would have my head, your brothers would have my 

throat!” 

“ _Theon_ ,” Arya gasped in mock shock, her hands clutching her chest as if she were a real lady offended, “You would break a _vow_? You would not _honor_ the terms of a wager?” 

“Lord Theon,” Sansa whispered, watching his eyes alight with such surprise and pleasure that she had to take a deep breath before continuing on with her play, “ _I_ would have honored the terms if it was I who lost. I still owe you a dance despite my victory, as I promised.” 

She said it all in jest but she knew that honor was greatly valued by men, especially Theon, who despite his past transgressions in her other life, did hold honor as something he thought he himself possessed. She knew that this Theon was no different, that deep down inside, past the wounded pride and the arrogance, he was still a highborn male raised to uphold the three traits of one of his status. Honor, Courage and Loyalty. While he squandered it all in her past life, his values as an Ironborn, whose words dictated that honor was for fools, that courage were for those that felt fear of death and loyalty was that which was a child’s dream prevailed the childhood lessons of Ned Stark, he retained them and died as a man who possessed _all three traits_. 

Honor, for he did not abandon her brother or sister even when their bodies were cold and their breaths long gone, Courage, for he still faced the Night King even as his men were slaughtered one by one, and Loyalty, for it was her he came back to, came back to fight _for_. It was for her brother, who he stayed to defend knowing he was the one the Night King was going to come for. 

_Loyalty_ , for even as he offered to be the one to defend Bran from an almost indestructible being, he knew he would not make it out of the Godswood as one of the living ever again. 

Sansa didn’t realize, so deep in her musings, that she had started to shed tears at the thought of him nor had she noticed that he had been staring at her as those tears appeared, thinking they were created out of disappointment of his unwillingness to honor the wager. He panicked, icy fingertips hovering over red cheeks as he tried to figure out what he could possibly say so that he would never have to see such emotions swarm her lovely face again. 

He sighed, in defeat and in grim acceptance that he was in for trouble. 

“I will honor the terms, my Lady. Just don’t cry, _please_.” 

Sansa jerked at that, her hands coming up to brush away tears she didn’t know she bore until her fingers came back damp. She laughed it off, her nerves eating away at the sound when she noticed her sister shooting strange looks at her dramatic and seemingly unnecessary behavior, “I _knew_ you would. Now, be a dear and get that arrow? Me and Arya need to retire before our mother finds out we’re not in the keep but out here participating in _nefarious activities_ like archery and bets.” 

Theon studied her face, still red from her weeping, and she watched as something flashed in his eyes. He opened his mouth as if to say something to her, something solemn and serious, but he held back. Instead, his grin came back in a form too forced to be genuine and rocked back on his heels. 

“Of course, young Lady Stark would be exhausted after this evening's performance. Good night, Lady Arya, Lady Sansa,” he inclined his heads towards them, his stiff formality at odds with his cheery voice, "Good shooting, Arya." 

Arya shrugged off the tension that had begun to form in the air between her sister and their family’s ward, _their friend_ , and gave him a cheeky smile, “Thank you, Theon. I look forward to reaping the rewards from my victory. I also look forward to what you and my brothers can teach me next.” 

With that reminder of his inevitable talk with the older Stark and Snow, Arya started back to the Keep, pulling at Sansa’s sleeve like a wolf pulling a lamb back to it’s den to be torn into. But Sansa was no more a lamb then Arya was, and kept her back straight and her face blank as she was pulled up to the door, up the stairs and into their chamber by her twitchy sibling, who after shutting their door, tight and firm, whirled on her like a storm about to swallow a town whole. 

“What the _bloody **hell**_ was _that_?” Arya started, her face scrunched up as she pressed in on her sister, “Why were you crying?” 

Sansa blanched at the disgust in her tone and turned her back on it, as if by physically shielding the younger girl from her sight she could shield herself from the venomous words. How could she explain all that she felt to her? How could she reason such an odd reaction? How could she make someone see sense when she couldn’t tell them all that she had seen, felt, lived and died? 

An idea came to her as she started stripping off her clothes, folding them in a neat pile at the foot of her bed. She plastered on a smirk and turned around, hating herself for having to put on a farce in the presence of family. 

_One day I won’t have to resort to such cheap tricks. One day I will tell them, once we’re older and the wars are won._

“It _was_ a convincing act, wasn’t it?” she gloated, her smirk a tad too bittersweet as she mused dramatically to her younger sister, “ _I_ thought so. Did you see his face? He didn’t know what to do with me!” 

She giggled, spinning around like the child she was pretending to be, laying herself upon her furs as if she were a queen reveling in her victories. She _**hated**_ this. She was _too_ good at lying to those she loved. She didn’t want Arya thinking she had been anything but true, didn’t want Theon catching wind of her ‘farce’ and thinking her nothing more than a highborn toying with the ward of her family. But if she had to sacrifice his trust and her image, she would if it meant that she could play this part to perfection. Play it to the end. Play the part of the cold hearted, traitorous witch so that the rest of the performers survived. 

She had never been much for plays. She knew them off by heart, of course, as she didn’t want to be behind on the story when a play was being performed amongst the courtiers back at King’s Landing. She memorized everything she knew about them, Sansa Stark of Winterfell trying to play at being a Southern maid. Not with those icy blue eyes, of the same coolness as the glaciers from the North that bore them, or the way she was paraded around, stripped, humiliated and beaten. 

_The Northern Wench._

She wasn’t in the Red Keep anymore. She was home, back in Winterfell. But she still had to keep her guard up until she solidified her place as a player in the game once again. 

Arya frowned as she stared up at her, “Are you saying that you _pretended_ to be upset so he wouldn’t back out of the wager?” 

Sansa internally grimaced, but outwardly smiled winningly down at her. As if _proud_ by her farce. She waited for Arya, the one who knew their father’s lesson’s like the back of her hand, to start spouting about how there were ‘no honor in tricks’. A lesson that Sansa had once taken into heart and had agreed with whole-heartedly. But that was _before_ she came up against the likes of Cersei Lannister, who persuaded her with false kindness and mercy to sign her father’s death warrant or Littlefinger, who was responsible for starting the War of the Five Kings and who tried to weave webs of jealousy and mistrust amongst the two sisters. That was when she learnt that to battle tricksters, she must learn and master their ways even if it stained her own soul. That was okay for Sansa. She would do, and _did_ do, everything she ever could for her family to survive. And she would do it once more. 

Arya surprised her, though, for her own lips curved up into an impressed smile as she turned to tear off her own clothes, leaving them scattered unceremoniously on the floors of their room as she rummaged through her chest to find her own night gown. 

“So, when shall we start our lessons?” the younger girl asked, her voice muffled as she pulled on her clothes over her head. 

Her older sister stared at her in amusement, “Perhaps tomorrow, after the meal at noon, we can convince Theon to join us on a ride? Maybe to the lake where we won’t stray too far but will be away from people. If he manages to talk Robb and Jon into agreeing teaching us, they may come too.” 

Arya snorted, as she pulled at the ribbons in her hair and mussed it up, as if by pulling apart her braids she was pulling apart her ladyship, “You and I both know that he is going to be _lucky_ if the boys don’t beat him for agreeing to our terms, let alone finding out that he also promised _their_ cooperation as well.” 

The red headed girl paled, pausing in her task of pulling back her sheets, “I didn’t realize. Do you honestly think they would hurt him?” 

“What do you think? They’re our brothers. They treat us as if we’re stupid children, like Bran and Rickon.” 

“They do _not_ ,” Sansa waved it off, before pausing once more, “Well, not about the children part.” 

She climbed into the warmth of her sheets and furs, puffing up her pillows to allow her more comfort as she sat up and looked at her sister from across the room, “Look, we’ll keep an eye on them tomorrow. If it looks like it will come to blows, we’ll intervene. For now, let us get some rest. If we are to get lessons from an experienced archer, we will need it for the hell he’ll put us through.” 

Sansa blew out the candle on her bed-side table and settled in, closing her eyes and smiling at the sound of her sister’s sarcastic mutterings of ‘ _what will we be able to do? I’m short and your fussy_.’ 

It was good to hear her speak so freely again.


	7. Greenseer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Who pissed on your good mood?” a voice from his right asked. 
> 
> Theon snapped out of his glaring, turning it instead to Jon Snow, who sat beside him with his eyebrow raised in question. The ward cleared his throat and turned in his seat before plastering on his usual crooked grin. 
> 
> “Your horse, Snow. Your horse pissed on my mood. So now I’m gonna piss on yours.” 
> 
> Jon snorted, before turning back to his meal with a, “What’s new?” 
> 
> Theon’s lips quirked up at the sarcastic reply, before turning his attention back to the sisters. His eyes widened when he realized that if there was ever a good time to do it, then it would be now. 
> 
> “You know what, Snow?” Theon drawled, turning around in his seat, “I’m _actually_ going to piss on your good mood.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoy this chapter! Let me know what you think in the comments below and as always, be reminded, that all criticism, feedback and suggestions are welcomed and deeply appreciated x

Sansa and Arya exchanged a glance from where they sat at opposite ends of the High table before cracking smiles of mischief. For below them, a young man played around with his meal, his ire and his discontent making any food taste like ash in his mouth. He fixed an annoyed glare on the two highborn girls, wondering how on earth ended up in this position. 

_That’s right, Greyjoy you bastard. You just had to fall for a pretty mouth and a wager, didn’t you?_

The red-headed girl smiled innocently at him, as if she didn’t coax him into signing a death sentence. He levelled her with a look that told her that he had words that would wipe that pretty smile off her face. Of course, he wouldn’t say them. It would inevitably cause his head to be removed from his shoulders, after all, speaking in any manner other than polite to a highborn lady. But deep down he knew, that even if he was given the chance to speak such words without fear of pain and death, he wouldn’t. Because at least she was smiling at him. 

Sansa Stark had never been known to mind the comings and goings of the ward of her father but as of late, that had seemed to change. She dined with him, laughed with him, talked to him. She made him a cloak and spoke of _them_ , using words like _family_ to solidify a bond that Theon never thought could ever be. Even though the voices of his house demanded for him to spit on the Stark name and curse it to all gods, old and new, he couldn’t. And it aggravated him to no end. 

He was kept up most of the night by the inevitable talk he would have to have with Robb and Jon. A talk that had high chances of ending with a sword at his neck and words of execution on a Stark’s tongue. Of course, he had considered several times of avoiding the talk, reneging on the wager completely. Except, when he was almost resolute with that course of action, _her_ face came to mind. The way she stared up at him expectantly, as if he was one of the knights in her stories whose word was bound by the laws of honor and nobility. The way tears came to her eyes and her face descended into unhappiness when she saw the conflict in his, saw the way he wanted nothing more than to break his word. Those tears could drive a man mad. He never thought to be one to succumb to such a thing as trivial as the tears of a female, but he did. And it ate at him and his pride from the moment he promised to talk with her brothers to the present where the very girl who kept him up all night smiled down at him as if all was right with the world. 

Her sister on the other hand, was a brat. He would not say it out loud, at least not in such company as the bannermen of their family. Arya Stark’s shit eating grin was devious, and at the tender age of eleven, she had the right to go around wounding the pride and peace of men like it was swordplay. Swordplay, that he was ‘bound to the laws of honor’, to teach her and her sister. The little fiend knew it too, how much he dreaded this. How deep he dug his grave by falling for such a tempting, and obvious, trap. 

Theon vowed after this incident, that he was never entering into a wager ever again especially if the wager came from the lips of a Stark. Especially a red-headed Stark. Especially if it included the red-headed Stark’s sister handling any kind of weapon. The young Greyjoy still could not get his head around how a highborn girl learnt to shoot like that. Of course, he had seen her shoot at close targets like that one time she interrupted her brother’s lesson to shoot her shot. And what a shot it was, hitting dead center even when her lord brother could not do so. 

He remembered laughing alongside Robb and Jon at the sight of Bran chasing her around the Keep, of Ned chuckling from where he and Catelyn stood overseeing the whole thing. Lady Stark did not take kindly to Theon and Jon’s enjoyment, as was obvious by the looks of disapproval and annoyance at their laughter. It had silenced Jon up good, that did. Theon, on the other hand, stopped laughing but did nothing to stop smirking for the rest of the afternoon. 

Arya Stark was a girl to watch out for, alright. A girl that could shoot like that was probably more dangerous than the rest of her brothers and even her father combined. But in his opinion, the person with the most power, whose very _look_ felt like an arrow to the chest, was the elder Stark girl. Mere _words_ from her could make a man ignore all the warning signs and fall into traps for just a taste of what she could offer. 

“Who pissed on your good mood?” a voice from his right asked. 

Theon snapped out of his glaring, turning it instead to Jon Snow, who sat beside him with his eyebrow raised in question. The ward cleared his throat and turned in his seat before plastering on his usual crooked grin. 

“Your horse, Snow. Your horse pissed on my mood. So now I’m gonna piss on yours.” 

Jon snorted, before turning back to his meal with a, “What’s new?” 

Theon’s lips quirked up at the sarcastic reply, before turning his attention back to the sisters. His eyes widened when he realized that if there was ever a good time to do it, then it would be now. 

“You know what, Snow?” Theon drawled, turning around in his seat, “I’m _actually_ going to piss on your good mood.” 

The bastard gave him a look of confusion before the Lord and Lady of Winterfell took their leave of the hall. Theon sighed and yanked on Jon’s arm before going up to Robb, who was walking out with his sisters, who saw Theon walking over to them with Jon and started jittering in excitement. 

_Look at them, getting all rowdy. So eager for my death, are we ladies?_

“I need a word with you,” Theon whispered to the eldest Stark child, sending a glare at Sansa and Arya. 

It was the younger sister who sang, “We’ll take our leave,” as if she could escape the consequences of this conversation. 

The Greyjoy boy chuckled bitterly, “No, I don’t think so. You asked me to talk to them and it is you who will answer for it.” 

He took satisfaction from her faltering slightly at that before she recovered and jutted her chin. Sansa, on the other hand, seemed to not have expected this from him and seemed slightly impressed by the gall of him. He would rather die than admit it out loud, but her reaction made him summon the confidence to continue with this talk. He stood straighter and turned to the two boys. 

“Your lady sister here,” he started, inclining his head towards Sansa, “challenged me to a friendly wager.” 

Jon flinched at this and Robb turned to her with an incredulous look, “ _Sansa_ made a _bet_? Our Sansa, who is a lady through and through?” 

Theon smirked slightly at the playful comment, “Aye, she did. She promised me a new cloak and a dance at the upcoming feast if Lady Arya – “ 

He turned towards the younger Stark, who did not break eye contact with him and promised death in that gaze if he kept going, “managed to shoot a spot of my choosing.” 

“Shoot with what? A bow and arrow?” Robb joked before seeing his sister beam proudly, “What? You’re not serious?” 

The heir of Winterfell pulled him by the collar before he could blink, ignoring the girls and Jon who went to pull him off the young Greyjoy quickly as he growled in his face, “You let Arya handle a _weapon_? Have you lost your mind?” 

“I didn’t _let_ her do anything,” Theon said quietly, his head lowering in a form of respect that made bile rise in his throat. 

Little did he know that Sansa was going through a similar reaction from where she clutched Robb’s arm in a death grip. Sansa had forgotten how protective her brother could be over her and Arya. For her, it had been over half a decade since she had even seen her brother alive, let alone seen him become aggressive and protective in her or her sister’s names. She should know better. He did in fact declare war for that very reason. 

_Stupid, stupid Sansa. You should watch where you’re going, little dove. Don’t play a life you barely remember._

She was not living the same life she once was. The horrors that she had lived through and felt had not happened and the person she had to be to survive was not the person her loved ones would recognize. While she must play the game of thrones, must play the part of a puppeteer with strings connected to every player on the board, she mustn’t sacrifice those that she’s trying to save. 

For one day, she had forgotten that she was thirteen again. She forgotten the consequences of this time and place and forgot what such consequences would mean for someone like the Theon of now. 

Seeing Theon lower his head, looking so submissive and meek reminded her of things that had not yet happened and yet she knew to have happen in a the life she came back from. With a different man than the one who stood in her brother's grasp. His shoulders were not slouched, and his skin was still soft and fat with health, not yet scarred or hollowed by the likes of a Bolton bastard that had yet to hold power of them. But with one gesture, one dip of the head and the shame that flashed in those eyes of his, he and him became one in the same for that one moment. And that was all Sansa needed. 

She gritted her teeth, _I’m not a little dove anymore. I’m a wolf. And I’m not going to stand by and watch men ruin everything, no matter how dear they are to me._

“That’s _**enough**_!” she demanded, pulling at Robb with all the strength she had. He let go of Theon, more out of shock then Sansa’s efforts, and whirled on her and their younger sibling. Sansa sighed, stepping back and straightening up as she looked her brother and half-brother in their eyes. 

“It was _my_ idea. _I_ challenged him to the wager. I thought it was the only way I could get him to do what I needed him to do because I knew he wouldn’t do it if I simply asked. I shouldn’t have asked him to do it though, and I’m sorry Theon,” she apologized, looking beyond her brother’s shoulders to the tawney haired boy who inhaled sharply when her eyes met his, “I should have summoned the courage to do it myself instead of forcing you into this position.” 

“You didn’t force him into anything –“ 

“ _Of course_ , I forced him. I called upon all the words of honor and duty that I could to talk him out of breaking the wager. I guilted him into confronting you with this. I, a highborn lady, took advantage of his values as a nobleman – don’t laugh, he has those values just as you do – to get what I want. I didn’t anticipate you reacting this badly though. And that is on _me_ , **not** Theon.” 

Silence fell upon them as all four of them stared at her in surprise. She was staring at Robb, though, in a determination that they’d expect more from Arya or one of the younger boys. Not their lady sister, who handled herself with grace and poise as if by no effort on her part. 

None of them said anything until Arya spoke up in a boastful voice, “Just so you know, brother, I won the wager. The arrow met it’s mark.” 

Robb whipped his head at her, meeting proud grey eyes that smiled up at him, waiting for praise of any kind. He didn’t want to yield his anger, his fear for their safety and their honor but he felt himself soften nevertheless and heard his friend sigh in relief from behind him. While Theon was not out of the woods yet, Robb thought about how quickly his anger dissipated just by looking at Arya and found himself no better than his friend. In fact, if he considered that it was Sansa who issued the wager, he couldn’t find it in him to blame Theon for accepting and furthermore letting the wager take place. 

Robb leaned down to look his little sister in the eyes as he asked her in a wary voice, “How far was the mark? I don’t know if I should be impressed if it turns out it was right in front of you.” 

Arya gasped, offended by the suggestion and she shot back, “It was further than you’ve ever shot!” 

Laughter broke out from behind the two and they whirled around to find Jon’s shoulder’s shaking as he hid his merriment behind his hand. Robb gave him an unimpressed look before turning to his sister and nudging her shoulder gently, “Go on then, show us this impossible shot you made and then I’ll decide if anyone will be getting anything from this wager.” 

Arya grinned happily before taking Jon’s hand and dragging him towards the Godswood. Sansa made to go after them but stopped, looking back at her brother and his friend. 

Robb ran a hand through his hand, accepting that she probably wont leave unless they went first and turned to Theon, fixing him with a hard star before he demanded through gritted teeth, “ **Explain**.” 

“Robb -” Sansa began in protest before she was halted by Theon raising his hand. 

“With all due respect, my Lady, it is best I explain myself. I can do that, you know?” 

His cocky smirk irked at Robb but not as much as it did his sister, who huffed but stood her ground. Waiting. 

Theon focused back on him, all confidence replaced by a seriousness that was not a usual stance the Greyjoy boy was known to take, “While it is true she persuaded me to take the wager, she did not _force_ me. I did it because I was curious and took a liking to the idea of her making me a new cloak as the last one was very fine. She bet Arya could shoot at a distance of my choosing and I disagreed. She proposed that if Arya was to make the shot, and she was to win the wager, I would have to convince you and Jon to help teach the girls how to fight. With both a sword and with their fists.” 

Robb’s brow furrowed as he shifted his attention back to his sister, whose teeth threatened to worry her lip to ruin with nerves. 

He sighed once more, “Why on earth would you want to learn how to fight, Sansa?” 

Sansa’s eyes flashed. _**Why** , he asks? Where do I start, brother?!_

Maybe she should tell him about all to come. Of the War of the Five Kings and how it almost brought about an end to most of the Northern lords and their heirs. How it nearly brought an end to _their **family**_ , how it brought an end to his and their mother’s lives. How she had been stuck in the Red Keep for almost three years while she was beaten, humiliated and wondering if the next day would be the lasts! How she was stuck in that castle with no weapon and no knowledge on how to defend herself – how through the Lannisters, the Eyrie, the Boltons and the Wildlings she never once used a weapon to defend herself, how she never knew _how_ to. 

She wouldn’t let herself be at such a disadvantage again. Maybe she should tell him, tell them all about how they tried to play the game of thrones and ended up dying. How they left her, Arya, Bran and Jon to fix their messes and to survive without them. How it was _her_ that won them back Winterfell after it was taken, how it was _her_ that looked after their people and how it was _her_ who was the last one alive in the end. 

But she knew she wouldn’t ever burden them like that. With the future she knows will come, for the most part. For the wars they lost, the people they lost, for the part of them they lost every single year they were apart from each other. How it ultimately destroyed them all. Only _she_ would know of the mistakes they made. And only she would know how to prevent them from happening again. 

But that doesn’t mean she can’t haunt him with what ifs. He might be her brother, but he needs to have his guard up if he is ever going to come out of this war alive to fight in the next one. The one that really mattered. 

“I want to learn how to fight,” she began, her voice as sharp as a blade meant to cut worries and mere _shadows_ of nightmares she had lived, “so that if there was ever a time where our family were not here, I would be able to fight with my every being to persevere. That if Mother or Father were to leave or were to…..pass on, I would be able to carry on knowing I can fight for our family if the other houses come to prey on us. That if you were to go off to war and never return, I could stand up and protect this family, protect Winterfell like you could. With a weapon. I want to learn to fight so that when it comes down to it, I won't have any excuse not to stop fighting until our enemies are vanquished and our house is safe.” 

Robb sighed, as if she had him worried about something real but was told her fears were based on fantasy, “Sister, I will _always_ be here with you. And if by some miracle I’m not, you have a whole household ready to take up arms for you. You have Jon, even Theon – “ 

“ **YOU DON’T THINK I KNOW THAT?!** ” Sansa shouted, her eyes turning to glass as she stared at her brother, the man who would one day be proclaimed titles like ‘The King of the North’ or the ‘Young Wolf’ and would die the ‘King Who Could Have Been’ if he didn't listen to her. She came forward until was looking up at him, “What if everybody was _dead_? What if _all of you_ were **gone**? Theon and Jon. You. Mother and Father. Bran and Rickon. Arya. Even our bannerman. Jeyne. Ser Rodrick. Septa. What happens then? What will I do with myself? How will I _defend_ myself against all that’s to come?!” 

Robb flinched back. Sansa slapped a hand over her mouth. Theon lurched forward, forgoing all caution over the elder Stark’s turbulent mood to stand by his shoulder as they stared at the younger girl in confusion. 

“Sansa?" 

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, trying to cover up her slip, “look I’m sorry - to both of you. Forget the wager. Forget what I said.” 

“ **SANSA** ,” her brother barked, in a tone he never used with her that truly demonstrated how deeply shaken he was by her outburst, “What has brought this on? Why this talk of the death and destruction of our household?” 

She didn’t reply. How could she? She was never supposed to reveal so much to him, never supposed to let him in on anything that she knew. She never would have compromised herself this badly before she died, when her walls were made up of Bravossi steel and her guard was forever up around her blind spots. When the muscles in her mouth were carefully controlled by the strings in her brain and she could play a person like a pawn on a chessboard without them being none the wiser. She could blame it on her new-found youth, of the return of her loved ones or her emotions clouding her judgement. It was probably all those mistakes and more. She needed to take back control of the situation before she doomed them all to repeat the same mistakes or worse, create more problems then previously foreseen. But how does one solve a problem as chaotic as the one she created with her loose lips? 

That was when she remembered. The Children of the Forest used to possess powerful magic that allowed them to foretell things that had past, things that were and things that were to come. Some say that only one in a thousand people could be born a _**Greenseer**_ , but they had slowly faded to myth or, extinction, depending on who you asked, since the Andal Invasion. But some say that their blood and their power now only exist within the North, and that only a Northmen could possess the powers of the Children. 

Sansa inwardly smiled as she recalled that story from Old Nan, a story that used to have Robb snorting in amusement at it’s folly and have her shaking in her fear before Robb would pick her up and settle her in his lap, declaring there’s no such thing as dead men or the Children. At least not anymore. 

_If there were anyway to ease him into believing all the stories are true, it is with this white lie._

“I’ve been having dreams of late,” she began her lie in a soft, fearful whisper, luring the two older boys in until they closed in around her, “Terrible dreams. Nightmares. And I think they’re fated to happen.” 

“ _Sansa_ – “ 

“ **Just** ,” she insisted with exasperation, “Let me explain.” 

When Robb looked like he wanted to argue, Theon stepped in and said in an uncharacteristically gentle, comforting voice, “Go ahead. Tell us what you saw.” 

Sansa smiled weakly, her lips wobbling at the curiosity on his face, “I saw the Baratheon banners coming towards the gates of our home, King Robb arriving with news that Jon Arryn had passed and with an offer to make Father his new Hand. Many things happen after that, like I was flying through many years in just a blink of an eye. And what I saw, Robb, it was _**bad**_. Worse than anything you could ever imagine.” 

Her brother came forward, laying a hand on her shoulder and rubbed gentle circles into her skin. 

“It’s okay, sister. I’ll take your word for it. Just take a deep breath and tell us what you think is going to happen.” 

She took a deep breath and continued, “I saw Bran falling out of the Broken Tower. King Robert dying in a hunting accident. My betrothal to Joffrey Baratheon, where I am left as a hostage caged in cruelty and torment by all at court. Father is arrested for treason, a crime in which he didn’t commit in the way one would think. I am trapped, alone in a den of lions. You leave Winterfell with Theon and Mother, marching South to fight for our freedom. Arya travels with the Night’s Watch to get back to Winterfell, which is taken by our own bannermen.” 

She inhales sharply, at that lie of omission – the only one she has made so far in her recollection. She decided before anything else that Theon was _**never**_ going to get the chance to betray them. She’d make him see reason before he would ever get the chance to act on his doubt. And if that opportunity would ever come, she’d strike it down herself if she had to. But until then, she was determined neither Robb nor Theon would ever find out about his betrayal. This was the Theon of now. The Theon of then, no matter her feelings towards him during the Long Night, was dead. 

“Bran and Rickon run North where they miss Jon, who has joined the Nights Watch. Father is executed, and I am forced to look at his head and the heads of our servants. You are declared King of the North by the Karstarks and are proclaimed as such by the rest of our men. But that ends when you, Mother and half our people are slaughtered at a Red Wedding, a violation of guest right.” 

Sansa breaths in and out, the emotion clouding her eyes, her nose, her mouth until she was all but choking on the sobs that wrecked her chest. Robb darted forward, enveloping her into his arms. He rocked her back and forth, soothing her cries with a gentle caress of her hand and the circles rubbed into her back. Theon didn't say anything, choosing to instead stand beside the two siblings in the only solidarity he had a right to show. His curiosity and his questions suffered unanswered in silence, sensing that forcing the girl to continue her ramblings of her nightmares would not do anything to aid him in finding out whether or not her talk had sense. When the red-headed girl’s sobs eased down, he watched as her brother gently pushed her back so he could look at her face, which was red and puffy but, never-the-less, painstakingly beautiful. 

“Sansa, sister, I don’t think – “ 

Her eyes widened at his soft, pitiful tone as she started to struggle in his arms, “No, no, Robb, I _know_ what I saw. I had this dream before Father even _told_ us about King Robert’s letter. Before he told us about Jon Arryn’s death. I _know_ things, like what the Red Keep looks like and the faces of people I’ve never met before but know by name. Tell me, look me in the eyes and tell me with all certainty you find that a coincidence and I shall never mention it again but if there is any doubt, remember Old Nan’s stories.” 

The elder Stark hesitated, his eyes darting from his sister, to Theon, to the trees surrounding them as if the very woods judged him for whatever he was to say next. Sansa saw this hesitation, this weakness of his confidence, and seized it by it’s throat, “Remember how late at night, she would keep us up telling us tales of the White Walkers and wights, of the Children of the Forest and the Night King, of the wargs and Greenseers? People who could see what was, what is and what will be? Brother, what if _I_ have that gift?” 

“Sansa – “ 

“Robb, _please_. It is not so far-fetched as it seems. They say only Northerners carry the blood of the First Men, the same First Men who co-existed alongside the Children of the Forest, who fought beside them. Is it so implausible that I, a highborn girl of a house that is older than the Seven Kingdoms itself, could possess such gifts? How else would you explain how I knew about Jon Arryn’s death or King Robert’s intention to make Father his new Hand?!” 

The air between them was filled with her pants, her passion draining out of her in hot air as her bright, blue eyes darted frantically, searching for his answer. She knew that this farce was a risk at best and a disaster at worst, but she held out hope for Robb, the brother who listened when she cried over the smallest things and who held her when Arya was being particularly nasty, believing in her as he always seemed to do. The boy in question looked over his sister’s small frame to a man he might call his best friend, who seemed as torn as he was about what to make of Sansa’s dreams. No ordinary girl dreamt of wars and death, nor did she dream of places she had never been or of faces she had never seen. 

Certainly not _his_ sister, _his_ Sansa, who spouted fantasies of brave and handsome knights, with intentions of love and nobility, defending fair maidens in order to prove their never-ending affections. He didn’t want to acknowledge Old Nan as someone other than a storyteller who enjoyed scaring the young lords and ladies of the household before bedtime, but his sister’s dreams sounded alike to that of the greenseer visions Old Nan once told them about. He also could not ignore his own dreams that plagued him, of seeing the world in black and white as he raced through the woods at full speed. Of standing over his bed and watching over him as he slept. He could not deny the feeling of seeing through the eyes of Grey Wind for the first time as anything but a true and genuine experience. 

While he wasn’t completely sure about the nature of Sansa’s visions, for the safety and the comfort of her mind and their family, he would trust her word. And if helping to train the girls in at least basic defense would help ease Sansa’s mind and would give them a chance if her visions ever came true, he would do so without question. Sansa saw him come to this conclusion and felt hope rise in her heart. She felt herself beam as her brother sighed, running a hand through his dark auburn curls in acceptance. 

“I don’t know if your dreams are real, sister, but if they are and if you really want to learn so badly that you would lower yourself to making wagers with Theon,” he joked, sending a tired but amused smile over at his friend who snorted, “I will indulge you and Arya in this. But only in teaching you a bit. Only a fool would teach Arya how to expertly cut open someone.” 

The red-headed girl raced forward, lunging at her brother with an open-armed hug that jostled him hard. She pressed her forehead into his chest, thanking him over and over again. She couldn’t believe he agreed to teach them how to fight! She had hoped but ultimately, she didn’t put to much faith in it. She would never make the same mistake again. For hope might have died out back in her time, but it still prospered as long as her family were alive and they had another chance to survive, and to furthermore, live their lives. 

A rustling in the trees behind them caused the trio to whip around, expecting to see one of their household storming in on them or perhaps someone who overheard them and thought them quiet mad. They let out a breath of relief in unison when instead it was Arya who appeared, stomping on every leaf and every stick until she was a breath away from them and yelling about how they didn’t follow her. Jon appeared behind her, giving them a rare grin that told them of what he thought of this shot Arya boasted about. 

“Now, I am going to show you that spot and you are going to follow me this time! Don’t make me chase you, brother, because I can and _will_ catch up to you!” the youngest Stark girl threatened, pointing a finger at her Robb before spinning on her heel and leading the group to the place where the wager took place. 

She crossed her arms over her little chest and stuck her nose up in the air, pride and smugness radiating off her. As Robb questioned her on where she was standing and where the mark was, Sansa made her way over to stand beside the young Greyjoy, who had been silent since her outburst earlier on. He didn’t say anything to her, continuing to watch her two siblings talk about how on earth Arya learned to shoot at such a distance. She had predicted this would happen, him being angry with her for using him to get Robb and Jon to agree to teaching her and her sister. But she didn’t intend to hurt him so, having forgotten her elder brother’s mighty temper when it came to her. Sansa watched his stubbled jaw clench, the muscle ticking the longer she started at him. He was so still; his shoulders having stiffened when he saw her coming towards him. 

She sighed when he didn’t deign to acknowledge her, “I am sorry, you know. I didn’t expect for you to be so angry but I can see why. What I did wasn’t considerate of you or the position I was putting you in.” 

Theon continued to pretend she wasn’t there, wasn’t speaking right to him. Sansa felt herself tense, desperation and annoyance tinging her voice as she continued on, “Theon, _please_. I thought it would be fun, having a friendly wager. I would have honored our agreement if you had ended up winning. I still owe you that dance.” 

The older boy turned to her finally, his face the picture of nonchalance as he raised a brow at her. 

“What makes you think I still **want** that dance, _my Lady_?” 

She blanched at his cold tone, feeling hurt bloom in her chest like she was dealt a blow by his sharp, uncaring words. She was not used to hearing such a tone from Theon, even before Ramsay and the wars. In fact, that was the first time he had used that tone with her and it hurt her more than she expected. It brought her back to reality, that this was not the man who faced nightmares alongside her, whose pain was a mirror of hers right down to core of her soul. This was not the man that fought Ramsay’s lover to give her time to run, or the man that jumped the walls of Winterfell alongside her. This was not the man that treaded through frozen waters to get her away from the death trap that used to be their home or who told her he would have taken her all the way to the Wall even if it meant his death. This was not the man who she spent her last, peaceful hours sharing a meal with, or the man who volunteered to protect her brother in the Godswood, knowing it was suicide. This was not the man whose body she cradled and cried into as her heart was pierced by an ice colder than any winter she ever lived through. 

The Theon Greyjoy of now was a boy, who never once felt what it was like to have his nails ripped from his body or to have his skin flayed from his bones. To never lose control of his mind, to doubt what he saw and who he was. At least not in a way that actually mattered. This was Theon Greyjoy, ward of Ned Stark and hostage of the North. He was an Iron-born, the last son of Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands. This was Theon Greyjoy who only ever saw himself as a captive within their house, playing pretend with the Stark children but never being one of them, no matter how many times Robb called him brother as if they shared blood or how many times Rickon or Bran crawled into his lap during Old Nan’s stories. Not matter how many smiles he and Jon shared or the friendly rivalry that ran between the two. Or how he and Arya shared jokes and laughter whenever Bran’s mischief usually left Sansa screeching at the top of her lungs in anger. No matter if Sansa couldn’t imagine the faces of her family without Theon’s being one of them. 

This was a boy who was dressed to the boots with arrogance, armed with a smile as if the world was a joke and he was the only one clever enough to know it. His words, dipped in sarcasam and shot off like arrows in a quiver, meant to hide the deep insecurity and yearning he felt. Who walked as if he was higher than Ned Stark himself to disguise the fact that he could die at any minute if his father stepped a foot out of line. Who wrapped himself in indifference until Theon looked, sounded, tasted and smell like he couldn’t care less. It made Sansa’s heart ache that he would feel to act like that around her but it made sense. He had no knowledge of the bond they once shared in their past life, of the trust she had for him and him for her. Of the feelings she harbored and glimpsed in his own eyes on their last night in this world. Of feelings they never got the chance to explore. She was being unfair, treating him like he was that same person and holding him up to the same expectations. What Theon needed from her was patience for the only way for someone to truly change for the better is if they had someone who never gave up on believing that for them. 

She swallowed down the anger that defensively rose in her throat and smiled in sad understanding, her hand reaching up to touch his shoulder and hovering just above it. They both stared at that hand for a moment before releasing the breath they had both been holding when she lowered it. They didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved that she didn’t touch him, didn’t offer that contact, that warmth. 

She made up for that loss of warmth with her eyes as she backed away from him and murmured softly, “If you ever want that dance, Theon, all you have to do is ask.” 

\- 

Dinner had passed painfully slow, for she had chosen to sit below at the low tables that eve and the air had grown frosty at her presence. Theon turned away from her almost immediately, only ever answering when his silence grew borderline rude and improper. Jon, however, made conversation – not wanting to dare the insult by following Theon in his quiet. Of course, Sansa had her other brothers and sister climb down from their perch to dine with their friend and half brother but even though the laughter echoed around the room and the food was well prepared, it didn’t stop it from tasting like ash in the mouth as the young man beside her indulged in conversation with everybody but her. 

_He’s not the same Theon he once was, it will take patience and understanding for him to get over the slight in his pride_ , she reminded herself repeatedly throughout the dinner, as if it could lessen the hurt she felt. 

“Sansa,” a small voice whispered from where Arya sat to the left of her, “You’re off with the faeries again, sister.” 

Sansa gave her sister an unsteady smile, “Sorry, were you trying to talk to me?” 

“I was pondering on when our first lesson shall be,” Arya explained, lowering her voice so that only their siblings and Theon could hear her as she turned towards them, “What with the King and his men arriving tomorrow and the risk to the honor of our house, or the heads of our teachers, if we are caught with swords in our hands.” 

“Of course,” Sansa affirmed, proud of her sister for this new cautious side of her, “Maybe we could start after they leave. Or maybe we could go out for riding, say that we’re accompanying the boys for the day, and have our lessons in the woods. Bring the wolves for protection and maybe even Hodor, if need be.” 

“Hodor,” Theon snorted, twisting his body so he faced the young Stark with an eyebrow raised. Sansa flinched slightly at the harsh pronunciation of the name and the fact this was the first word he had spoken towards her since that morning. 

Theon saw the sharp movement, saw the way her pretty blue eyes widened and her pink lips open in shock and felt regret sting at him, as it had every time he saw her falter when her attempts at conversation were left unanswered or brought up short. It wasn’t that he didn’t think she was sorry; he could see that the girl had clearly not considered every aspect of this little wager of hers. Seven hells, he wasn’t even mad anymore. Just wanting to be left alone although… 

He was curious to the lengths she would go to get back in his god graces. This highborn girl who want for nothing apologizing and trying to make him, her father’s ward and the son of a traitor house, talk to her. He could see it in her eyes as he levelled her with a hard stare, that although his silence hurt her and his tone confused her, she was resolute in her intention to get him to ‘forgive’ her for her naivety. Some depraved part of him liked the way her eyelashes fluttered nervously as she forced herself to meet his stare and he bet every coin he owned that if he was to place a finger on her neck, he’d feel her heart beating fast under his fingertips. 

“Why the seven hells would you bring that oaf along? He’d just draw attention.” 

He watched her swallow, traced the movement with his eyes in relish of the effect he had on this girl. It was strange, intoxicating how she had hidden her attraction to him. Of course, he would never do anything of it. He didn’t fancy meeting the business end of Robb’s sword anytime soon and besides, he had at least a modicum of honor. Sansa Stark was young, a girl of only thirteen years and while he was only three years above her, he did not like the gap in their ages despite the fact he probably slept with whores far older than himself by the time of his fourteenth year. 

“You have a point, but it would do well to have someone accompany us into those woods, someone who could protect us from wild animals or even Wildlings that have made it over the Wall. You do not need brains if you have muscle,” she explained to him, the grit of her teeth causing an edge in her voice at the last sentence, which she said while looking at him. He felt his lips pull up against his will, the smirk appearing at the backwards insult she attempted. 

“Why, my Lady, thank you for noticing. I do try to keep up with the bulk of your brother and his like, but I admit it has been quiet a challenge for me,” he sent a look to Robb, who shook his head at his attempts to rile up his sister. To her credit, Sansa Stark didn’t blush at his words or gasp in surprise at his forwardness like he would expect. 

Sansa Stark prided herself on many things. Her ability to sew, her ability to spout lies almost as easily as she was able to weave truths and her knowledge of even the things her ‘greenseer’ powers wouldn’t cover, like the strengths and weaknesses of every powerful player in and beyond Westeros. But the one skill she held at more value than all the rest in her arsenal was the ability to act as if nothing bothered her. She sat up straighter at Theon’s efforts of embarrassing her and instead plastered on a small smile, eager to beat the young Greyjoy at his game once and for all. 

“I’m surprised, Theon, that you would have put in effort at all. Even _Arya_ doesn’t break a sweat with all the running around she does. I guess it’s only red-heads and small _children_ who it comes naturally to, it’s too bad.” 

Theon’s eyes narrowed at the jab, leaning forward so his low voice would not be heard from her parents above, “Are you suggesting _that_ little runt has more muscle mass than I?” 

Sansa bared her teeth in a wolfish smile, leaning forward so her answer could be heard by only him, “Yes, that’s _exactly_ what I’m suggesting.” 

“Alright, that’s it,” Theon growled, sitting back up and sharing a look with Robb and Jon, “Lads, I’m going to take my leave, get some shut eye, maybe even stop in the see how Roz is doing.” 

Robb chuckled and Jon hid his sigh behind a heavy hand as Theon got up from his seat and bowed in front of the Lord and Lady of Winterfell, “With your permission, my Lord, my Lady, I would ask if I may retire for the night?” 

Ned nodded and Catelyn sighed in what seemed like relief that there was one less ward dining with her children. Theon bid them both a good night, before leaving towards the great double doors but not before sending a sharp grin back at the Stark children, his eyes fixing on Sansa with a glare before he disappeared out into the cold. 

Sansa sighed, shuffling her food around in exasperation as she thought to herself glumly, _That went well, looks like I pissed him off even more._

“Come now,” Robb said with his mouth full, waving his cutlery at her, “Theon will get over himself soon enough. He just might need a quick visit to Roz first.” 

He and Jon chuckled quietly at what they thought was an inside joke between just them men, but Sansa knew. She had run into Roz during her stay in the Red Keep, when Littlefinger first made his approaches of offering her ‘aid’. She remembered the red-headed girl for her and Shae used to talk while accompanying her on walks, where they would watch her talk with the then Master of Coin. She remembered taking a walk one night to clear her head and finding the woman's body being dragged out of Joffrey’s bed chambers, arrows shot through her like she was no more than an animal. She remembered that night, because she ran back to her chambers and emptied the contents of her stomach as soon as the door closed. It was only later that she found out Ros used to be a whore that serviced young nobles in the North, just outside Winterfell. She wondered briefly if her brothers ever visited her and knew that Theon most definently did for all his swagger and talk. 

This just confirmed it. 

The two boys joked and laughed amongst themselves and Sansa plastered on the expression of confusion that her younger siblings wore and exchanged a look with Arya at their brother’s amusement. A girl of thirteen doesn’t have a look of knowing when men talk of whores. A girl of thirteen should only have knowledge of what her Septa teaches her, the stories Old Nan told them before bedtimes and the fantasies that used to keep her busy, of knights, of princes, of love and honor. 

Sansa hadn’t been a girl of thirteen for many years now. But alas, she’ll have to keep up her farce if she ever wishes for her siblings to make it to past their twentieth year. 

\- 

Shortly after Theon left, her Lord Father stood to declare that King Robert and his bannermen would be arriving on the morrow, and that the next day they were all expected to have all the preparations finished so that the Royal family’s stay would be as comfortable as possible. A common person might suggest that this was to honor their family, and the friendship shared between her father and his Grace, but Sansa knew better. She knew her father would try to avoid offense to his friend at all cost, especially after she convinces him to decline the betrothal between herself and Joffrey. She would even attempt to convince him to decline the position of Hand, but she knew that was hoping for too much. Nevertheless, she had a plan for either outcome, but she was insistent on the fact that she would rather die a thousand deaths than ever be tied to that sadistic bastard in this new life. Nor would she travel South and leave her brother defenseless. When it came to the bastard born by incest, she would not budge on her decision to deny him. Even if it meant her family faced the wrath of a king. Besides, there were worse things than the drunken rage of Robert Baratheon. 

She and Arya were escorted to their wing of the Keep by their brothers, before bidding them goodnight as Robb and Jon led Bran and Rickon around the corner. She and Arya walked to their rooms, closing the door and getting changed for bed in silence. It was only after she bid her sister good night and climbed under her furs did Arya speak. 

“I heard what you said, you know. About your dreams,” her little sister whispered from across the darkened room, “Do you honestly believe they’re visions of the future?” 

Sansa stiffened, not expecting this at all. She lay still and listened to her sister's breathing and knew she wouldn’t let up until she gave her an answer. 

“I don’t know,” Sansa sighed softly, sitting up to peer over at her, “All I know is that I’ve never had dreams like that before. I swear to the gods that what I saw, I could not make up even if I wanted to. I saw things I never would lie about. Things that honestly terrified me, Arya, more than you will ever know. I just know that what I saw _will_ come true unless I do something about it. I feel it in my very bones.” 

She knew not all her siblings would believe her, and honestly didn’t plan on her posing as a Greenseer working out at all. She just had to hold out hope that when the time came when one of the many horrors were to come about, they would listen to her when she offered a way to survive it. 

“Did you see me in your dreams?” 

Sansa closed her eyes before replying, “Yes.” 

“What happened to me?” 

She took a deep breathe before telling the story of a time that she had lived but would not pass, not if she had somethin to say about it. 

“You went with Father to King’s Landing and were taught by a former Bravossi sellsword who taught you a form of fighting called water-dancing. You rode with the Night’s Watch to the Wall, your identity protected by one of Father’s friends Yoren, who cut off your hair and made you pose as a boy. You travelled alongside two boys by the names of Gendry and Hot Pie, who became your closest friends during your travels. It took you many years to get home. During that time, you travelled many places and met many people. You became a warrior, as skilled and as dedicated as the knights of legend. The last thing I saw of you, you were running on the rooftops of the Keep and bringing your sword, a small but sharp weapon, on the heads of our enemies.” 

Her sister was stunned into silence, and after a few moments, Sansa thought she might have fallen asleep through her speech until she heard a snort. 

“There is no way that you could have made that up on the spot.” 

Sansa smiled to herself at that, before pressing her face into the furs around her and fell into the waiting arms of sleep, forgetting at that moment, of the troubles the new day would bring.


	8. A Court Of Lions Dressed In the Skins of Stags

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She shut her eyes and took a deep breath before saying the words she wished she had said back in the life she left behind, “Prince Joffrey Baratheon is a cruel and sadistic creature, and he will be the _**death**_ of you. And once he has your head set upon a pike for all of Westeros to see, he will turn his ire on me. He will beat me until I am blue, bleed me of my Stark blood, humiliate me and set me on a path of ruination. And I will not stand for any of it happening.” 
> 
> _Never again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry I haven't updated in a while but here it is! I hope you all enjoy this chapter and please, let me know what you think in the comments below. I truly look forward to hearing from all of you x

When the sun shone through the windows, she felt her heart stop. 

She was back there, where the air smelt like piss and shit even from the great towers of the Red Keep. She could hear the distant crash of the waves on the beach from below and felt last night’s meal rise in her stomach. She launched herself out of her bed and to her chamber pot before her mind could right itself, sick spewing from her mouth. She sat back in shock, the light of the morn spilling in through her windows not unlike the silvery grey of the northern skies she drew comfort from. Sobs choked her, wrecking her slim chest until she caved within herself. 

“Sansa! Sansa, what’s wrong?!” she heard Arya call out desperately, before skinny arms enveloped her, “Sansa, please, tell me what’s the matter!” 

“What’s going on?” someone asked from the door, probably lured by the sounds of her cries and Arya’s shrieking, “Sansa, sweetheart, what’s wrong?! Are you hurt?!” 

Her mother’s face appeared before her, cradling her head and inspecting her for injuries before her face dawned with understanding and she turned towards her sister, “Arya, get your father.” 

“Shhhhhh,” Catelyn soothed, smoothing her daughter’s hair and bringing her face to her chest, “You’re alright, it was just a nightmare. You’re safe, you’re here with me, love.” 

“Cat!,” Ned yelled from down the hall, making his way into the room with her brothers and Theon on his heels, “Is she okay, Cat?!” 

“Ned, please, let me just get her back into bed,” her mother said, pulling her up into her arms, “Come now, my sweet, you’re alright.” 

She heard her father’s footsteps approach them and heard the wood creak as he knelt beside the bed. 

“Sweetheart, what happened? What did you see?” 

Her mind whirled, trapped between her lavish cage in King’s Landing and the warmth of her room in Winterfell. 

She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know _when_ she was. 

All she heard was her father’s voice and she went towards it and the safety it offered, “Da, _please!_ Don’t-don’t let them take me! I- I don’t want to go-go!” 

Her broken cry only further distressed him, leaving nothing for him to make sense of until she calmed down. Ned turned towards the boys that hovered in various stages of undress at her doorway, all wearing expressions of concern and caution. He noticed all of them were searching for some enemy, some physical foe that they could strike down so that Sansa might feel safe and felt his chest warm, even at his ward and his so-called _bastard_ son. 

_They're good lads. Better lads then they might have been left elsewhere._

“Boys, go ahead and get on with the day. Sansa has just had a bad dream, that’s all. She will be with you as soon as she recovers from it,” he reassured them, dismissing them. He noticed that all three of them exchanged a knowing look and wondered if they too suspected that these were no mere nightmares. They all gave the room a once over, as if to confirm there was no one that had hurt the girl before inclining their heads and walking off. 

Ned turned back to his little girl, and frowned, “Shhhh, it’s alright you’re in Winterfell, sweetheart. You’re amongst family. Now, take a breathe.” 

He looked up at his wife, whose face was masked in helplessness. She didn’t know what plagued their daughter’s mind, but he had his suspicions and needed to confirm them. He knew his Southern wife had no belief for Northern tales about what lay beyond the Wall. To the South, the history of the First Men was shrouded in myth, but he grew up with the stories since he was a young boy. If dragons once roamed the Earth, then he could find it within himself to believe that greenseers and wargs could too. It was the dead men and the White Walkers that had his doubt but that was a matter for another time. 

“Cat, get Sansa something to drink. And a meal from the Hall - she won’t be well enough to join the other’s this morning.” 

She frowned at him, obviously wanting to stay and comfort their daughter but he knew that the conversation that he needed to have with his daughter would not be one that his wife would like. When she left the room, he turned to his daughter and turned her towards him. 

“Sansa, I need you to hear me when I say this. You are home. You are in Winterfell, the North, amongst family and people who would give their lives to protect you. I need you to hear me, sweetheart. You are here with me and I am not letting anyone take you. I promise.” 

Sansa could hear him, and it was as if she had a bucket of cold water poured on her. She opened her eyes and searched around her room. She recognized the bedding on her bed to be that of furs and not of fine silks, the hearth in the corner where there was still dying embers that warmed the room, that the sky was bright indeed but she could see the stone walls surrounding the keep like a fortress, severe and grey unlike the reds and the bricks that were paved throughout the cursed capital of Westeros. 

She breathed in deep, following her father as he inhaled and exhaled. She wiped at her eyes and stuttered apologies, feeling stupid for letting her fears get to her and causing a scene that with her luck, would be talked about from Winterfell all the way to the brothels in Wintertown. 

Her father held her to his chest, muffling her apologies and settling them with calming noises. 

“Are you well now? Are you here with me?” he asked softly, pulling back so he could look at her face. 

She nodded, “I’m with you, Father.” 

He winced, hoping she might call him _Da_ , like she did when she was a babe. Though, he would rather have her call him _Father_ in her calm, than hysterically scream _Da_ at him. 

“What did you _see_ , Sansa?” 

She beheld him with wide eyes, hearing the silent question in his voice and let out a trembling breath. This was the moment, he was allowing belief in her words, in what she saw. She was lying about her sight, but what she saw was the truth. Every word of it. She tried to think back to this gods forsaken day and recall how it went about. 

“His Grace is arriving today. You should be hearing the announcement of his banners being sighted on the horizon at some point this morn. When he arrives, he will greet you with a joke, and you will introduce him to our household, as customary. He will then announce that he wishes to pay his respects in the crypts. While he is down there, he will ask of you what he has always asked of our house. That he wishes for the Starks and the Baratheons to be united through marriage. He will demand for me to be married to his son, Crown Prince Joffrey Baratheon. Right after he asks for you to become his Hand.” 

She shut her eyes and took a deep breath before saying the words she wished she had said back in the life she left behind, “Prince Joffrey Baratheon is a cruel and sadistic creature, and he will be the _**death**_ of you. And once he has your head set upon a pike for all of Westeros to see, he will turn his ire on me. He will beat me until I am blue, bleed me of my Stark blood, humiliate me and set me on a path of ruination. And I will not stand for any of it happening.” 

_Never again._

She expected her Father to look upon her in shock, to admonish her for her treasonous tongue and to scold her for her foolish thoughts. She should have known better, for her Father treasured her comfort and happiness above the wishes of his friend, who turned into a stranger every year since his beloved sister’s passing. Ned Stark gazed down at his daughter with solemn eyes, turning every horrifying word over in his head until he knew of only one way to settle his inner turmoil. 

“Know this, daughter, that should the offer for your hand be raised at any point during his Grace’s stay, it will be an offer shot down quick. If it makes you so unhappy, I will insist that you already have betrothal contracts in the making. Be at peace with the knowledge I will never sign away your freedom or choice, nor will I dismiss your concerns,” he said, pressing a kiss to her red hair before standing up, “If today goes as you predicted, we will discuss these visions more in the future. I promise.” 

Sansa felt the air leave her, the burden lifting from her shoulders leaving her feeling lightheaded and happy. 

She closed her eyes, smiling weakly at her father, “Thank you, Father. That is all I can ask.” 

“Of course,” he said with soft eyes as he made his way to the door to leave her to get dressed, “Are you well enough to continue your tasks today?” 

“I am, thank you. I apologize for causing you to worry.” 

“Do not apologize, Sansa,” he said sternly, “If at any point in time you feel as if you need to tell me something, do not be afraid to come to me.” 

She nodded and watched as he left, closing the door shut behind him. She lay back in her bed and felt exhaustion take over her body until she could do no more than lie there. She did not expect it to be this way, where her father had faith that her word was true and that he would furthermore heed her warnings. Sansa felt for the first time like she was genuinely helping change the past and that she wasn’t playing at being puppet master. It was hard, not to feel that way after coming back to her childhood. It was hard not to feel like a child when she had the body of one and for all intents and purposes, she _was_ one. It wasn’t anyone’s fault either, for they had no memory, no knowledge of what transpired, of what will transpire should they make the same mistakes. 

She couldn’t blame Theon for his anger, for they did not share a bond solidified with blood and fear. She couldn’t blame her father, for he was ruled by honor and had yet to learn of it’s failures. She couldn’t blame her mother, for she was raised as a highborn girl through and through and had yet to consider the possibility of the power that whores, bastards and traitors could wield. She couldn’t blame her siblings, for they were not the people who they once were nor the people they were to be and were still living in blessed ignorance that youth had both gifted and cursed them with. It was her responsibility to save them, to teach them, to advise them, to guide them so that their blindness would not be the end of them. 

The Starks had to steel themselves for what was to come. They had to make their power known and revered, to remind the world that they were just as great of a house as House Lannister or House Targaryen, that Sansa knew was beginning to rise across the Narrow Sea. 

A House she had yet to decide what to do with. 

A knock on her door distracted her from her musings and she sprang up, calling, “Come in!” 

Her mother came through with two handmaidens, one holding a jug of water and the other with a bowl steaming with what was probably the left-over rabbit they caught in the hunt that commenced at noon the day before. She heard that they were lucky with what they caught; two deer, a wild boar, half a dozen rabbits and a bird or two. The larger game would be prepared for the feast that eve, but the rest was dispersed at supper the night before and, as it seems, at fast that morning. 

“Are you well now, sweetheart?” her mother asked, settling down beside her as a handmaiden passed a goblet of water to her so she could bring it to her daughters lips. 

Sansa took a sip, welcoming the cold liquid as it cleared the bitterness in her throat. 

“Thank you,” she replied, smiling reassuringly at the older woman, “I am fine now. It was but a bad dream, but I appreciate you worrying.” 

“Of course, I would worry,” her mother admonished, grasping her daughter’s smooth hand in her aging one and bringing them to lay on her lap, “I worry about you a lot lately, Sansa. It seems as if you are so distant from me.” 

Her mother’s glassy eyes, blue like her own, reflected how deep her sadness went and Sansa felt her own eyes fill with salt water at the realization of the hurt she had caused. 

She never intended for her mother to feel like she was avoiding her, not really. She just wanted time and quiet to begin with her plans, without judgement or doubt. She was so focused with saving them from themselves and the enemies they were soon to dine with that she had blinded herself to how her actions might have come across to a woman who she was once very close to. Sansa was not used to this feeling of regret, of tip toeing around those that had been so different and so gone back in her time. 

Although, she was quiet different herself, once upon a time. 

By the time she claimed her rightful title as Lady of Winterfell, she had grown ice cold and fiercely protective of what little family she had left. Arya and Jon had their complaints about how she ran things but even Arya sided with her when it came to dealing with the lecherous Littlefinger, and even when it came to greeting Daenerys Targaryen, a woman who she had conflicted feelings about even now. Bran had no objections to anything at that point, only vague words and vacant stares that had both the Stark girls questioning if their little brother really had died while he was up North. 

She wouldn’t push her family away, not this time. 

“I’m so sorry, Ma,” the red-headed girl croak, fresh tears now pooling down her cheeks in streams, “I’ll be a better daughter. I’ll make you proud.” 

Her mother cooed at her, pulling her into a warm embrace that made Sansa’s heart spark with joy for the last time her mother held her like this, it was the night before she left Winterfell. It was an embrace she yearned for after Father’s execution, after she was married to Tyrion Lannister, after the news of their deaths came fluttering in attached to ravens almost as black as the news they brought. Her arms tightened around the older woman’s shoulders and she felt determination harden her resolve like the frost hardened the air around them. 

She would not let this be the last of her mother’s hugs. 

She felt her pull back and leaned into the hand that smoothed her hair back and tucked it behind her ear, “Would you like me to do your hair for you this morning, sweetheart?” 

She felt her lips tremble as she replied, “ _Please_.” 

The girl settled herself at her vanity table and looked in the mirror. As she studied her mother’s reflection, she recalled the tales of her mother’s beauty and how many suspected Sansa might surpass it once she reached her prime. She knew, from the hungry looks and the predatory gleam in the eyes of the lords and knights back at King’s Landing that she was indeed as beautiful as she was told growing up. With her icy blue eyes and Tully red hair. 

Kissed by fire, Tormund Giantsbane once grumbled to her in passing with a hint of sadness lacing his rough tone. 

As she went through her trials, passed from one monster to the next, she had secretly cursed her so-called _beauty_ and wished to have looks more like Arya, who although got told continuously she was the spitting image of their late Aunt Lyanna who was crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty in her time, was able to spurn the affections of boys and men alike with her unladylike ways and her brazen attitude. She suspected the real reason Arya was never an option for Cersei was due to the fact that her sister was too wild, too wolfish for the Queen to control. 

But looking in the mirror, she stared up at a woman who didn’t need to fret over her fading beauty when she could command a room just by entering it. Whose voice and reason held more sway than her youthful looks ever did. Who was able to possess the affection of three powerful men in her lifetime alone. Catelyn Stark, who was whispered as the Dowager Queen, in honor of herself and of her son. 

Sansa would make her mother the Dowager Queen once more and even go so far as to claim her as the Mother of Wolves. She would hold her beauty, inherited by her Lady mother, and wield it just as well as any sword. It would be another tool, another way for her and her House to win the game of thrones once and for all. 

A knock on the door pulled her out of her thoughts once more, and she wondered if she was ever going to get any time to think before the seven hells were brought on top of them all. 

“Come in,” her mother called, turning around from where she was running a brush through her silky-smooth red tresses. The door opened and closed quickly, and she could see through her mirror that one of the young handmaidens stood waiting to be acknowledged. 

“Yes?” Catelyn asked, brushing out a few strands that were being a bit difficult. Sansa fought back a wince at a particularly painful tug and waited for the handmaiden to continue. 

“Pardon the intrusion, milady,” the handmaiden began, bowing in reverence, “I was told to inform you that the Baratheon banners have been spotted in the distance and that His Grace is expected to be greeted before noon. Milord has asked me to inform you that he requests your presence, as well as that of the little lords and ladies down in the courtyard before then.” 

“Thank you, that will be all,” the older woman replied, nodding her dismissal. The handmaiden bowed once more before leaving, and Sansa finally let the breathe she held at the name of the Royal House out. Her mother mistook it as a sign of excitement and smiled down at her softly, “There, there it is alright. I’m sure you will make it in time to greet his Grace and his family. I heard that Prince Joffrey is quiet handsome, if rumors are to be believed.” 

Sansa blanched and tried not to shake too much at the reminder that she was soon going to come face to face with her former betrothed. With that sneer that ruined any good looks he might have had and that barely restrained hunger in his eyes that promised violence and pain unto anyone it locked on, she wondered how in the seven hells she ever fell for such a depraved creature. Despite the fact she had bested and escaped him once, it terrified her to do so again. 

He was one of three foes she was terrified of, the others being the rotten Bolton bastard and the Night King that had slain her. It seemed silly, shaking over a boy that could barely swing a sword or had yet to shoot a crossbow as far as she was aware. As his father used to say during their first visit to Winterfell back in her time, he was just a boy hiding behind his mother’s skirts. 

But that boy would become King soon, and that is where his true power lay. For a golden crown and a throne of swords gave that one boy the power to indulge in all and any, pain and war was his to command as he pleased. Sansa pitied the girl that his mother matched him with, for it was not going to be her this time. No, she would stay with her family, protecting the North and building alliances so when the wars were done, they could face their attention to the real threat that lay dormant Beyond the Wall. She also wouldn’t let her friend from the Reach be shackled to that monster either. 

While Margaery Tyrell was as cunning as she was beautiful, not even her charm could evade a wrath like Joffrey’s, or his mother’s. When she had heard what had become of one of her only allies in that den of lions, she had felt her heart ache and her hatred for the Lannister queen grow. While she soon realized Margaery used her charm as a cover to seek out power, she considered their friendship, or at the very least her kindness, to be genuine. Her offers to marry Sansa to one of her brothers had given Sansa hope when she thought she lost all that she had. No matter the girl’s intentions, she would save her. In fact, she already had a proposal in the making that would ensure happiness to her and to another person close to her heart. 

“Sansa, are you listening to me?” 

“Pardon?” Sansa jerked in her seat, before realizing her mother was trying to talk to her, “I apologize, my thoughts got ahead of me. What were you saying?” 

Catelyn tsked at her, although her smile remained, “I was remarking on Prince Joffrey. I remember you talking about him with such adoration. I was wondering if you still thought about him the same.” 

The red-headed girl fought back the urge to scrunch her nose up and instead opted to politely reply, “I don’t. I feel like he would not be a nice match for me.” 

Her mother’s reflected frowned back at her in confusion, “I thought it was what you always dreamed of, marrying a prince?” 

“Dreams change, Mother,” she replied, meeting the older woman’s eyes in the mirror with a maturity that made Catelyn blink back in surprise, “I would rather be matched with someone close to home. Maybe someone from a Northern house or even one of the Lords from your homeland.” 

She could tell her mother did not know how to go about this and she sat in peaceful silence as Catelyn continued brushing her hair before twisting it into the southern styles she usually favored. 

_Not anymore._

Sansa stopped her, “No. Keep it down. I want it like yours.” 

Her mother’s eyes lit up, despite her incredulity on why her daughter would suddenly act so adversely to all that was the South. 

“As you wish, dearest.” 

\- 

The courtyard was quiet when she arrived. 

It had taken her a moment to stop the shaking of her hands and the disgusting habit of worrying her lip with her teeth but now her terror threatened to grip her as she made her way over to where her father and siblings stood, her mother close on her heels. Her long, red hair that was usually tied up in intricate styles that mimicked those worn South was left down at her back. She wore the Stark grey gown she designed, a fine enough piece of cloth that would satisfy the likes of Cersei Lannister but was also severe enough that none would mistake her as being anything but one of the North. The collar climbed up her neck, meant to present a picture of modesty but instead it threatened to tighten and choke her alongside the fear that was caught in her throat at the flashes of deju vu that wrought her as she made her way down the steps that morn. 

They all turned their heads towards her, and Bran, forgetting propriety as any ten year old would, bundled over to her. 

“Sister! You’re here. I heard you had a nightmare and you didn’t feel well. Are you better now?” he asked, his childish innocence blinking up at her with bright eyes. 

Bran’s personality was the most different out of all the siblings when she returned, so bright in contrast with the emptiness she had grown accustomed to back in her time. 

It made her smile, even if his loud announcement of the scene in her room earlier made her flush red with embarrassment, “I’m fine now, Bran. How about you lead me to where I am supposed to stand?” 

Bran gave her a cheeky smile and grabbed her hand, tugging her impatiently to a spot between Robb and Arya, a few paces in front of where Theon and Jon stood with the rest of their household behind them. She avoided meeting the tawny haired boy’s eyes, afraid of the mocking she might see in them. She returned Jon’s concerned look with a reassuring smile and did the same to Robb before facing the gates that would soon let in a court of lions dressed in the skins of stags. She felt her hand shake more vigorously the longer they stood in the crisp cold, waiting. 

She jumped when she felt a warm hand entwine itself with her own, ceasing her trembling with the support it offered. 

“Did you have another vision?” Arya whispered, her voice low even in the silent courtyard. 

Sansa hummed, afraid her voice might give away how truly scared she was to be back _**here**_ , in this moment. 

“What did you see?” 

“Nothing I didn’t already know.” 

Arya grunted in dissatisfaction, a sound that if Septa were to hear it, would earn her quite a scolding. 

“Tell me later, when we’re alone.” 

“You two are not nearly as quiet as you think,” their brother’s voice was heard from where he stood at Sansa’s left. He leaned down so that he was more subtle in their talks, “You will be telling _all of us_ later what you saw.” 

The red-headed Stark girl sighed, “It isn’t anything I haven’t already seen.” 

They heard a sound that suspiciously sounded like a laughed before it was abruptly cut off by an elbow to the stomach from behind them before Theon’s lazy drawl whispered, “I call your bluff. Jon and I want to know what’s going on too.” 

Robb sighed. Arya snorted. Jon told the boy ‘ _don’t speak for me, Greyjoy_ ’ and Sansa raised her head to the sky as if speaking to the gods when she breathed, “Oh, spare me.” 

They were all silenced by their Lady mother, who sent them all stern looks before turning towards the front once more. Sansa sent Theon an annoyed look, one that he returned with one of those lazy smirks of his and that annoyingly perfect maneuver of raising one lone eyebrow. She whipped around to the front, feeling just as much like the petulant child she was acting like. 

She felt happy, to joke around with them, to feel them surround her like this and to make her feel like even though their enemies were being welcomed through their gates under the guise of friendship, everything was going to be okay. And she realized with a start, that was probably what they intended to do. Distract her from whatever nerves were eating her alive so that she could relax enough that these strangers wouldn't know something was wrong. 

Her heart warmed at the thought and it fed the fiery courage she needed to stand a little taller, to pull down the shades on her true terror and to wear a mask alike to the ones her sister wore when she came back from Bravos with the title of a Faceless Man wrapped around her like the cloak of the Bravossi death god they worshipped. Except hers was made of ivory instead of flesh. 

_Beautiful, unbreaking and unyielding._

Even as the ground shuddered with the hooves of horses and the horns blew to announce their arrival. 

Even as the gates opened so slowly she felt the urge to rip them off their hinges to get this horrible affair over and done with. 

Even as Robert Baratheon appeared on his horse, with his gilded crown on his head and his great belly threatening to send him toppling. 

Her mask stayed put even as the white horse appeared, with the Crown Prince of Westeros on it’s back. 

She swallowed hard and forced the hatred she felt for him to burn any fear that might compromise her stance, gritting her teeth hard as the incestuous bastard parading as royalty rode in on a horse he could barely control and turned his nose up at the lowborn people who gazed up at him in reverence. He dismissed every single person gathered to greet him and his family until his eyes caught on her flaming red hair. It had been a long time since was caught in that gaze and even after all she had accomplished, everything she survived, she still felt bile rise up in her throat at the mere _sight_ of him. 

She knew she was squeezing Arya’s hands too tightly, but she could not summon the care for she was too busy trying to fight the compulsion to either run for the Wall or to drive him through with a sword. She didn’t once break his stare as he settled his horse beside his father’s - _what an audacious little prick_ \- and only turned away after he did. The delusional twerp probably thought her stare was teasing and lusty, rather than full of hate and felt herself go brittle at the thought that he might see it as an invitation and try something. 

_What can he do to me that others haven’t already done? Let him try to **breathe** the same air with the intent of laying a hand on me! I am surrounded by the Direwolves of legend and a family of Starks that would kill him before he even blinked in malice. _

_Gods know Cersei would put up a fuss but his father – or rather his false father - would probably thank them for it._

Robert Baratheon went red in the face due to the immense effort it took for him to get off his horse without stumbling. Sansa saw how the knights at his side hesitated on whether or not to lend him aid, whether they should risk their head or their king’s honor weighed heavily on their shoulders. She knew what they would pick and settled for observing the Kingslayer’s arrival. 

Last time she had seen Jaime Lannister, he and Brienne of Tarth were fighting alongside her squire, Podrick Payne, on the eastern side of Winterfell, just before the Godswood. While her heart still seethed for what he did to Bran, her little brother at ten, she could not deny that when the moment counted, he rode all the way North to offer his assistance. Even with the loss of his hand, his swordsmanship still lived up to the legend and the title of Westeros’s best swordsman. 

_Even though Jon stole it years beforehand but, nevertheless, for a one handed man, he held his own and then some._

It had seemed that during his time as her mother's captive and on his trip back to King’s Landing accompanied by Brienne, he had grown a conscious and a set of morals that caused him to aid them against the White Walkers. While some whispered it was to save his queen, the sister he laid with down south, Sansa suspected it was due to another woman altogether. 

One whose height corresponded well with her courage, for of all of Sansa's tales of knights and honor, Brienne of Tarth was the only one who ever lived up to such expectations. She even heard rumors when she was sent down into the crypts with Tyrion and the women and children, that a tall, blonde woman was knighted by the Lannister knight, right in the Great Hall and were witnessed by the likes of Ser Davos Seaworth, Lord Tyrion and her own squire. Tyrion didn’t say much when she questioned him about it, only grinning and waving her off, ‘Propriety went to the seven hells when we found out we were facing the dead.’ 

Now as the Kingslayer rode in, leading a carriage of gilded gold and polished wood, she could barely recognize him from the solemn but earnest man she last seen. He wore the same arrogance as his nephew – his _son_ – and smirked at the lowborn ladies that fluttered their eyelashes at him and settled his horse behind his Grace and his prince. His hands, both of flesh, went to the pommel of the sword at his side and she swore that all of her siblings, as did her mother and father, stiffened at the insinuation behind it. 

He gave her father a sharp smile, inclined his head as a mocking of the respect that should be shown to a lord, before making his way over to the carriage door. Sansa’s breath hitched as the door was flung wide open, and a servant boy hurried to place a step down for the royal presence inside it. The first lion to step out was the princess, Myrcella, whose lovely faces peered around in curiosity and wonder, a stark contrast to the disgust and aversion on her elder brother's face. 

The young girl was a princess in all but birthright, and Sansa could honestly say that she had no qualms with her. During her stay in the Red Keep, Myrcella went out of her way to make the Stark girl feel welcomed and comfortable, offering conversation when her brother and mother ignored her and giving her sympathetic smiles when Joffrey made cruel comments at the dinner table she was invited to before she was tossed aside for Margaery Tyrell. 

Despite the girl’s Lannister blood, Sansa felt like they were kindred spirits before Margaery came along to offer her a reprieve. She felt as if Myrcella and her younger brother Tommen, were just as badly treated as she had been by Joffrey. She could tell, for when he raised his voice, they both flinched as she did, and the girl moved as if to jump in front of Tommen to protect them from their older brother’s violent outburst. And for all of Cersei Lannister’s talk of treasuring her children, she almost seemed to discard them quickly compared to the near obsessive watch she kept over her oldest. Tommen Baratheon followed after his sister, probably only a few moons younger than Bran, and went to her immediately, as if making haste to get out of their mother’s road. 

Queen Cersei Lannister climbed out slowly from the carriage, stopping for a short moment so that the sun glinted off her golden hair and jewelry, giving her the visage of radiance that sorely mislead all to believing she was anything but a wicked serpent with an affinity for wine, wildfire and wanton trysts with her twin brother. Her cold eyes inspected the courtyard and found it lacking, her nose scrunching up as if the fresh air of the North offended her, like she did not live in a palace that constantly smelt of the shit and piss that wafted in from the slums of her city. 

She lifted her skirts and accepted no help down from the carriage, _her Grace_ the epitome of poise as she approached her son and husband. The royal family stared down their noses at their household as they all bent the knee in respect and reverence of their position. Sansa dipped her head further so as to hide the barely restrained rage she felt at having to bend the knee to the drunk, incestuous _**fiends**_ that posed as if they were superior to them. 

She lifted her head only when she saw King Robert’s boots appear in her vision, directly in front her of her Lord father. The king’s face was serious, grave eyes baring down on his friend with a solemnness that made Sansa still for a moment before she realized what would happen next. She almost sighed at the ridiculousness of it all. 

The king pulled her father up, looked him up and down and declared in a loud, slurring voice, “You’ve gotten fat.” 

The heads of her siblings snapped up, and they looked to their Lord father on how he would respond to the insult. Sansa watched the two men keenly, especially her father, who looked speechless for a bit before darting his eyes down at his Grace’s own protruding belly before meeting his old friend’s eyes with a flash of mirth that was unusual for the Northern lord. The two couldn’t take the comedy anymore and threw their heads back laughing rambunctiously, coming together to clasp each other by the arm. 

The rest of them rose as the two exchanged pleasantries, as if it hadn’t been almost ten years since they had seen each other, despite Robert’s constant jabs of the fact. Robb turned to where Theon and Jon stood behind them, giving them quizzical looks that were returned before facing the front. Robert had enfolded their mother into a hug, complimenting her beauty and making a jib about his own wife, who focused on them all with a hard stare and an even harder smile. 

Sansa watched him approach her eldest brother first, clasping on the shoulder, “You must be Robb! My, have you grown since the last time I saw you. You’re a boy of what? Six or seventeen years now?” 

Robb smiled good-naturedly at the King, “Sixteen, your Grace.” 

The Queen came forward to greet him too, “My, and what a handsome face you have grown into.” 

Robert pulled a face and tugged the boy forward, Sansa barely capturing the whispered jape, “Be careful around that one, boy. My wife might want you for her own by the end of our visit.” 

Her brother blushed at the insinuation and couldn’t meet the Queen’s eye when she extended her hand for him to kiss. Robert moved on to her next and she saw how he took in her in, from her Tully hair to the Stark dress she made, “Well, aren’t you a pretty one. Who might you be?” 

Sansa curtsied lowly, her eyes fluttering down in faux obedience, “Sansa Stark, your Grace.” 

“How old are you, little miss?” the King asked, sending her father a more than obvious wink. 

“Three and ten years, your Grace,” she replied, knowing where he was going with this line of questioning and doing everything she could to avoid looking at his son, who was currently greeting her mother. 

“Ahhhhh,” Robert grinned, turning towards his best friend as if her age proved the point he had been trying to make since her birth, “It just so happens that my boy, Joffrey, is only a few years older than you. What a fine match that would be.” 

_Beautiful, Unbreaking, Unyielding._

_You will be none of those if you heave over the king's boots, Sansa._

He continued on to Arya, who made him still as if he was staring at a ghost, “And your name, young one?” 

“Arya Stark of Winterfell, your Grace,” her younger sister announced, pride clinging to the name she bore. Her sister had no idea why the King stopped, and Sansa knew that she was not the only one that stiffened at the look on the man's face as he studied the young girl's features. She saw her Father make to move out of the corner of his eye and the way her mother’s hand wrapped itself around his arm as if to anchor him to her. 

King Robert continued down the line, stopping quickly to pat the two youngest boys on the head before whirling around to announce with a newfound severity, “I wish to pay my respects to the dead.” 

Sansa’s head glanced subtly at Cersei Lannister, who had just finished greeting her brother to look up at her husband in fury. The Queen’s face grew hard, her jaw clenched so tight that Sansa could hear the grinding of her teeth, “Your Grace, we’ve been riding for days. _Surely_ , the dead can wait – “ 

“ **Quiet** , woman!” he cut her off, his loud bark echoing across the courtyard and causing silence to descend at the public admonishing. Robert turned back to her father, “Come, Ned, let us find some peace and quiet. Gods only know how long I’ve gone without it.” 

Sansa caught her Father’s eyes as he walked past with his best friend, his eyes widening in recognition that this was the vision she fortold, and he nodded at her to appease her worry. She felt a relieved smile grace her lips before it was abruptly wiped off when a flash of golden hair appeared in front of her. 

“Your Grace,” she curtsied, keeping her eyes from giving away the murderous rage in her heart. 

Cersei Lannister smiled wanely, a smile that Sansa was aware distracted all from the dangers that were her sharp teeth and claws that could not wait to pluck the feathers off the newest bird that flew in her cage, “What is your name, little **dove**?” 

She fought hard not to bristle at the nickname, the moniker of, not a wolf of the North but, an innocent, naive, little girl that had fallen for the glistening gold of the bars that trapped her. She **hated** that name with a passion that threatened to consume her, a passion she forced down into the depths of her soul where the rest of her secret nature lie. Instead, she fluttered her eyes in a portrait of pure worship as she inclined her head in faux respect for the faux queen before her.

****

“Sansa Stark of Winterfell, your Grace.” 

****

“What a _pretty_ name,” the queen mused, her lips thinning as she studied her. She remembered what it was like, waiting for what felt like hours on end, being watched by the Queen of Lions who never seemed to quite agree with what stood before her. That dissatisfaction with her had yet to appear, strategically hidden behind beautiful, cunning green eyes and a face still blessed with beauty. 

****

“Your Grace, you honor me so,” Sansa cooed, her chest puffing out in what she hoped was a show of pride and inclined her head once more, hoping she was seen as nothing but the pretty, little fool she used to be. 

****

It had worked. Cersei’s lips twitched in amusement as she stared down her nose at the girl she thought of as nothing but a fluttering bird, with high aspirations and almost no sense. If she wished for any girl to wed to her son, she would rather it be someone as easily swayed as this one, even if she was a Stark. Her younger sister was out of the question, for the girl was rumored to wear the face of the late Lyanna Stark and was as wild as the wolves that they wore so proudly on their crest, snarling at invisible enemies on their banners. There would be no controlling that one. She continued down the line of Stark children - _oh how she **hated** these Northerners_ \- before waiting patiently for her children to follow her. 

****

Sansa had thought her ruse would have a moment to recover but alas, while the Gods might have listened to a prayer on the lip of death, the prayers she uttered in those moments went unheard. For when she trailed her eyes from the queen’s retreating back to where the rest of the new company stood, she found herself facing eyes that had haunted her from Blackwater Bay all the way to the Eyrie where Littlefinger once swept her away. For before her was one of three foes she was most afraid of facing again. 

****

Once, when she was taller, wiser and older with a more serious grasp on power and a heart cold to anything other than protecting the remainder of her family and their people, she would have laughed at the little boy who thought himself so _grand_ , so _brave_ , so _noble_. A little **boy** , she would laugh to herself at night, whose only danger was his arrogance and his quick temper. It was only after gaining the power that could excuse such actions, that the foolish child truly became dangerous. But it was easy to feel that fear she once felt again, back at three and ten years and the only power and respect she had came from being the daughter of the honorable and noble Lord Eddard Stark, warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. 

****

As his green eyes devoured her in a way that no small girl should be devoured, she found herself summoning the familiar cold that had kept her back straight and her heart from aching during the Long Night. She reminded herself that she had survived him, that she had lived and prospered while he had rot in a crypt and was desecrated in the memory of the subjects that had once roared his name in triumph. She reminded herself that if she was to once again outlive this arrogant bastard, she would need to keep her act up. Even if she did unwittingly bite her tongue to keep from gasping in disgust as he snatched her hand up and brought it to his lips, not looking away even as he pressed a harsh and sloppy kiss to her small hand. 

****

_Be brave. Be brave like a lady in a song_ , she used to tell herself every time she was struck by this boy. 

****

“It is a _pleasure_ to meet you, **my** Lady,” Joffrey Baratheon purred softly, his voice dripping with suggestion as he continued, “It is to my knowledge that we are intended to be betrothed. I _very much_ look forward to getting to know _**my**_ **wife**.” 

****

Sansa resisted a shudder and forced the most sickeningly sweet smile to form on her face, that fought her on that action every second she had to stand before him without cursing his name to all seven hells, to not cut off his head and feed it to Grey Wind for breakfast. Or even Ghost, for the runt of the litter had been very gentle when he was approached of late. The thought helped her in her struggle and made it easier to form a genuine smile, relishing in the blood she imagined would rush from his headless corpse. 

****

“It would be my honor, my Prince,” she replied demurely, keeping her eyes firmly beneath where his eyes bore into her face. That seemed to satisfy him, for he gave her a leering smirk before moving on down the row, skipping the rest of her younger siblings, none of whom seemed to complain about avoiding a greeting from the horrible boy. 

****

“Are you alright, Lady Sansa?” a girlish, child-like voice asked. 

****

Myrcella Baratheon now stood in the spot her brother vacated and immediately Sansa felt no force when she smiled at the girl only a year or so older. At four and ten, Myrcella had already begun showing promise of turning into a golden-haired beauty that would rival the likes of her mother. Her green eyes were bright and happy, and perhaps just a little sympathetic as she beheld the red-headed girl. 

****

Sansa curtsied once more, smiling in reassurance, “I am quite alright, your Highness. Thank you for your concern. Our family welcomes you to the North and we hope your stay is a comfortable one in Winterfell.” 

****

The blonde girl brightened more, “I am very excited to see everything your home has to offer. Perhaps you could show me around?” 

****

She felt herself nod and found that building a friendship with the Lannister girl would not be so bad. 

****

_In fact, it could offer some use in the future._

****

“It would be my pleasure, your Highness. And perhaps, the young Prince might want to meet with my brothers. Bran is around his age and has started learning how to spar with a sword. They would not mind giving his Highness a lesson or two, that is, if it would be to his liking?” 

****

The two girls looked towards where Tommen Baratheon gripped the back of his sisters skirts. 

****

Myrcella passed a hand through his curls in comfort, “Do you like the sound of that? Sparring with Bran?” 

****

The little blonde boy peered around his sister to look at the dark-haired boy in question, who upon hearing his name had started listening in on their conversation. Bran gave the younger boy an uneasy smile, one that Tommen returned. He nodded at his sister, whose own smile grew as she faced Sansa, “Thank you, Sansa, for your kind words of welcome. I think we will enjoy our stay here.” 

****

She curtsied once more to them before they joined their mother and brother from where they impatiently stood a distance from where the Northern household lined up, inspecting their home like it was a mere speck of dirt under their golden slippers. Sansa exchanged a look with Arya, her lips curling up in a dry smile before they turned to their brothers and Theon. She took her place beside Robb and whispered underneath her breath, “This is going to be a _long_ week.” 

****

“Aye,” he whispered back, his voice betraying his dread, “I know.” 

****

Theon hid his laughter in the guise of a cough from behind his hand, before he was shushed by Jon, who straightened up as Lady Stark approached the waiting nobility. 

****

“If it pleases you, my Queen, I will show you where you will be staying,” Catelyn bowed. 

****

Sansa watched as Joffrey sneered down at her mother, the queen taking great amusement in making the Lady of Winterfell bow for a moment before giving her an answer. 

****

“You are too kind. Please,” Cersei nodded her head, gesturing for the noblewoman to continue. 

****

Her mother straightened up and gestured for two handmaidens to accompany her before leading the lions into their home. 

****

\- 

****

“I need you, Ned. Down in King’s Landing, not up here where you’re no damn good to anybody.” 

****

He didn’t want any of his daughter’s claims to be true. But alas, it was not to be. 

****

“Lord Eddard Stark, I would name you the Hand of the King,” his best friend declared, unwittingly signing his death sentence. Although, if he were to deny him, that would also be a death sentence. Ned Stark wondered what he did to deserve this lot, thrown on him out of nowhere. After seventeen glorious years of steering clear of the conflict, of the politics, of the rats nest of a court down in the gods-damned South they called a capital, he would have thought he earned the peace he longed for. 

****

The deserter from the Watch brought ramblings and nonsense that rattled his bones, words that echoed on the tongue of his sweet Sansa whose dreams, once filled with knights and fair maidens, now were wrought with the death and destruction of their house, and as she tells it, the kingdoms as they know it. Now, it seemed he must put truth in tales for her dreams have come true, meaning the possibility that all the stories he waved off about the dead could be true. All that was about to come to pass, could be true. 

****

He stared down at the dirty, dust covered ground of the crypt as he tried to find the words, the right words, to say to his best friend, who watched him with a heaving chest and brown, fiery eyes that told him he wouldn’t quit on this. 

****

Ned got to his knees before his King and said the words that naturally came to him and prayed to the Old Gods that they would ring true, “I’m not worthy of the honor.” 

****

Robert snorted, “I’m not trying to honor you, I’m trying to get you to run my kingdom while I eat, drink and whore my way to an early grave.” 

****

_By what Sansa has told me of her visions, it sounds like you will, Brother_ , Ned thought sadly. 

****

He didn’t believe his daughter before, with her voice tinged in terror and despair as she clawed at him in desperation. He now wanted nothing more than to seek her out and beg her to tell him everything that went wrong, everything he did wrong for his King, his friend, his brother to die. And for him to follow soon after. 

****

The Baratheon King leaned forward, laughter in his throat as he pulled at the Old Wolf’s shoulder, “Dammit, Ned, stand up. You helped me win the Iron Throne now help me keep the damn thing. We were meant to rule together. If your sister had lived, we would have been bound by blood.” 

****

His friend’s eyes dulled for a moment, looking at him in wistfulness. 

****

“Well, it’s not too late,” he continued, “I have a son. You have a daughter.” 

****

Ned’s eyes widened as he recalled what Sansa had told him of this. 

****

_He will demand for me to be married to his son, Crown Prince Joffrey Baratheon. Right after he asks for you to become his Hand._

****

“We’ll join our houses,” Robert declared as he shouldered past him to continue deeper into the crypts. Ned felt his heart stop and stutter with the words that confirmed his worst suspicions. His daughter possessed a power long lost, a power of myth and legend and history that had been mocked and laughed at by the likes of the South, and even the North. Her visions contained the very future of their world and what he had heard so far did not give him comfort. He stayed for a moment like that, dealing with his fear and his concern and his turmoil in silence so as not to give away anything to a man that was his brother in all but blood and name, for even a King would not take too kindly to hearing his own death even if it came from his friend. 

****

“Come along, Ned!” he heard him shout from somewhere around the corner and hastened to make his way to him. He knew where he would be, standing in front of _her_ statue for it was the first place his heart went to even after all these years, with a wife and children down in the Red Keep. He knew Robert held no love for his wife, knew he slept in brothel beds and in the arms of whores more times than he slept in one with the queen. He knew his son barely held his attention, and that he had probably forgotten his other children’s names. 

****

He watched his friend stroked the face of a statue that held no likeness to the sister he once knew and felt sadness strike him as Robert shook his head, “Did you have to bury her in a place like _this_?” 

****

Ned looked away. His friend continued, anguish echoing his words, “She should be on a hill somewhere, with the sun and the clouds above her.” 

****

He knew what Robert really meant. She shouldn’t be dead _at all_. 

****

But Ned had followed the duty of his house since he was a babe. And Lyanna might have been Robert’s greatest love, but she was _Ned's_ sister. And she belonged with the rest of their family. 

****

He told him that and wasn’t surprised by his response. 

****

“She _belonged_ with **me**.” 

****

Robert cradled the statue’s chin as his voice lowered to an edge that only appeared when he spoke of one person, “In my dreams, I **kill** him every night.” 

****

Ned stiffened his back. _This_ was the reason he avoided his friend, avoided going down South and leaving the North, his family, his _secret_ , unprotected. For that very edge that appeared in Robert’s voice, an edge that promised death and pain to a family that was responsible for so much misery in both their lives, Ned’s especially. 

****

Despite that, in a twist of irony only seen in tragedies, he fought to keep his friend from acting on such promises. For, the very reason why he had risked his so-called honor to protect his secret, _her_ secret. A secret Robert could never know. A secret _the kingdoms_ could never know. 

****

“It’s done, your Grace,” Ned went to reassure the King, “The Targaryens are gone.” 

****

It got quiet, dangerously quiet. Robert’s hand stilled from his gentle caress of Lyanna’s memory. 

****

“Not all of them,” he growled before snatching his hand back from the statue as if it burnt him. Like the people they spoke of in such warning and anguish summoned their legendary fire to tell them that they were here, as ghosts listening to them mourn. The two friend’s suffering, the dragon’s pleasure. 

****

His friend turned to him, his cheeks red and streaked with drying tears and a smile so rambunctious it called for a drink and a pretty woman, “Come, let us feast and drink until we can no longer see straight!”

****


	9. The Feasts of Beasts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Long Live House Stark!”
> 
> The last declaration, only a mere whisper as she strode past, seeped steel and ice into her bones and her back, stiffening her spine with a will. A will to survive, live and prosper.
> 
> Winter Was Coming. And they would see it through and finished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoy this chapter! It will take some time before I upload the next but in that time, I will enjoy hearing your thoughts and feelings about how the story is being played out and I look forward in conversing on how you find my representation of the plot, of the characters and the themes I am playing with! If you have any questions, please leave a comment at the bottom! I do truly appreciate hearing from you all and it is your feedback that feeds the inspiration needed to continue on with such a story.

Sansa was getting ready to change and join her family and their guest in the hall for the feast when her mother knocked on the door. 

“Sansa,” Catelyn called, opening and shutting the door behind her, “I was wondering if you wanted help getting dressed for dinner?” 

“Yes, please,” Sansa smiled, wanting to spend more time with her mother, especially after the talk they had that morning, “Could you help do my hair? I want to look my best for the King and Queen.” 

She settled herself down at the vanity, and blinked innocently up at her mother, hopping the lie settled in her heart without a stir. Catelyn smiled back; glad her daughter was returning the familiarity they hadn’t shared as of late. She picked up her brush and once again ran it through the same red hair that she wore on her own head. 

“Are you sure it is the King and Queen you want to impress, or is it the prince?” 

Sansa jerked in her chair, shocked and angry at the insinuation before she remembered. As far as her mother knew, marrying a prince had been something she dreamed about since she was a little girl. Her mother had no knowledge of how the mere thought was now alike to a nightmare, one she had lived and escaped from with no short amount of pain and sacrifice. She thought she had dashed the thought this morning but it seemed her mother thought that with the welcoming of the royal family, it would welcome back old dreams and tales she had once obsessed herself with. 

“If I may be so candid, Mother, I have long since lost interest in the thought.” 

Catelyn’s fingers stilled in shock, recovering only to question her daughter’s statement. 

“When did this happen? I thought it was your dream, one that I’m sure the Prince himself wouldn’t mind with the way he stared at you when he arrived.” 

Catelyn honestly didn’t mind this new change in her daughter, for her marriage would have sent both her and her Father down South for sure. Away from their home, away from her. She, in fact, had to muffle the growing smile of relief so that her daughter wouldn’t chastise her for being offensive to his Majesty. Not that she would as Sansa soon continued talking. 

“I didn’t like how he looked at me, or my siblings. Or my home for that matter. He gave you, my Lady mother, a right mean look too. I don’t fancy someone that rude and pompous as my future husband. Besides, once, I might have longed to leave the North, but I realized that I would leave the only home that would ever accept me no matter what. With people who would protect me and a family that would love me and die for me should they need to. Could I say the same about those in court, Mother?” 

She bent down and kissed her daughter’s head, satisfied with her resolve when she replied, “No, I’m afraid you can not.” 

Her mother began styling it up in a common Southerners look, before Sansa put a hand up to stop her, “Could you style it like yours, once more? Please?” 

Her mother beamed down at her, “Of course.” 

She waited until her mother had plaited and pulled back two pieces of hair and left the rest down before asking her of something that had been bothering her long before she woke up in the past. Back when she walked through the gates of the Night’s Watch and saw Jon for the first time and felt so much regret for how her and her mother treated him, as if he was any less a Stark. Now, that she had been told the truth about his origins and how her mother’s resentment was unfounded, she felt the need to right it, to not let despair and jealousy aid in the downfall of their family. 

_We have too many enemies amongst ourselves to let our own unnecessary doubts cloud us._

“Mother, could you do something for me?” 

“What is it, sweetheart?” 

“Will you promise to hear what I have to say before passing your judgement?” 

Catelyn Stark, daughter of House Tully, upheld the words of her house very seriously. 

_Family, Duty, Honor._

It was these words that dictated her whole life, that made her nod in acceptance when she was betrothed to Brandon Stark, that made her submit to her father’s wishes, while she was recovering from news of his death, to marry his brother Ned Stark, that made her take the trip North to live in a land far different than her own where all, even their gods, were strangers. That made her put her chin up and walk straight when her husband came back from war with a babe he claimed to have sired with another woman. That made her continue to live with this child in their household, and furthermore stayed silent when he went off to fight another of Robert’s battles and came home with another child, one from a people that she was taught to view as the scum of the earth. 

Catelyn once thought there was nothing she would hold more dearly to her than the values of her house. That was before her children came into her life and she made a family with a man that she grew to love, in a household she learnt to call home. In a land that she came to call her own. It was her family, her Sansa, that gave her sway to nod her head seriously, “I promise, as your mother and Lady, I will hear you.” 

Sansa looked up at her mother with hope. Maybe if she could convince her mother that there would come a time when it wouldn’t be the lords and ladies of nobility they could depend on, but the whores, bastards and the barbarians who saved them. That it would be the soldiers, the sailors, the cutthroats. That it would be the living they could count on, no matter their birth or their ways. 

“I need you to do something that goes against every bone in your body, but I need it for the good of our house.” 

Catelyn frowned at the severity of her daughter’s words, “What could you possibly ask of me that would be so important?” 

“I need you to put aside your resentment for Jon. And Theon Greyjoy too.” 

Her mother gaped at her, clearly shocked at her request. Her withered hands shook from where it clutched her brush. Sansa turned in her chair in order for her mother to sense the seriousness of what she asked of her, looking her straight in the eyes. 

“I-I you c-can't -” her mother stuttered out her words before settling the brush down on the wooden table in front of her in resolute firmness, “I am your mother. I do not have to explain my feelings or actions to you.” 

“Mother,” Sansa said gravely, standing up so that she stood toe to toe with the older woman. She was tall for her age, taller than most of the girls she knew. Even when they were fully grown women, Arya only came up to just below her shoulder. With her mother, she came up to just below her nose. 

“You will listen to what I have to tell you. As you promised me you would.” 

Catelyn jerked back at the tone she took with her, and she observed the struggle that took place inside of her mother to not snap back at her for her rudeness. 

“Jon is family. He is my brother, and while he might not be my true-born brother, he is my brother in everything but name. He does not deserve your hatred. Your resentment. It was Father’s choice to sire him, and therefore the blame should lie with him, not an innocent boy that didn’t ask to be the illegitimate son of a highborn lord and a common girl,” Sansa declared, her head held high and voice clear. Her mother opened her mouth to protest the offense she made to their high Lord, but she cut her off, “I love Father, dearly, I do. But if you can forgive him for his transgresses, then surely you can forgive a boy whose only transgress was being born out of wedlock.” 

Catelyn shook her head, her eyes turning glassy with fury and sadness, “You have no right to ask this of me.” 

“And you have no right to hold that against him! He has nothing but the deepest respect for you. He listens when you talk, he does what you ask and when you look at him with ire and disappointment, he lowers his head because he _agrees_ with you!” 

“ _ **I don’t care**_ ,” Catelyn hissed, tears running down her cheeks as she spat words she did not mean at the core of her heart but still felt, “Every time I look at that boy, I see this woman – this woman who lay with my husband, who managed to bore a boy who looked more like the son of a Stark than any other children I ever produced. He is the sword to everything, my pride, our dignity –“ 

“And your anger will be there sword to this house, by the Old Gods and the Seven I **swear** it!” Sansa cried over her mother, her own tears running down her cheeks, glistening pools of memories that were wrought from her mother’s inability to forgive, “I’ve seen it. It will drive him away; it will drive them _both_ away. A war is coming, and we need them to be loyal. We need our family, our house to be _united_! And yes, I speak for all my siblings and dare I say, even Father, when I say that Jon and Theon are part of this house! You and Father have raised them alongside us, taught them alongside us and yet you can’t treat them with a minuscule of kindness, or at least acceptance?!” 

It was quiet for a bit, her outburst stunning her mother into silence. She understood, for she never once raised her voice, never one questioned her mother like this. Scolded her like this. To do so, in the time before she woke, would have been a high offense, a rudeness she would never dare take to her lady mother, whose opinion and ways she once cherished and thought to be law. Times have changed though. _She_ has changed. 

Her ladylike ways did not aid her in any battles, her family were strewn across the kingdoms or dead in ditches made by enemies that did not abide by any code of honor. She did her duty, as the Lady of Winterfell, she oversaw her people, treated with one-time enemies despite her family’s, her mother’s, past narrow-mindedness that used to follow her around like a cloud during her time in court. 

She wielded words like a sword and never once learned the ways of battle, true battle because her mother’s words of judgement for war still echoed inside her mind like a second-conscious. And still she fell at the hands of an enemy that she stood no chance against. 

Even with the allies they did have at that time, they still fell. Maybe because the rest of their people died long before that, in wars that held no consequence compared to the real threat that walked towards them with blue in their eyes and ice on their breath. 

Her mother spoke up, her voice a mere breath above a whisper and full of fear, “What war, Sansa?” 

She whipped her head up at the older woman, Southerner born and unbelieving of the lore of the North. 

“What **_war_**?!” Catelyn repeated, her voice sharp like a knife as she clutched her daughter’s arm in urgency. 

“You would not believe me if I told you,” Sansa declared under hooded lashes, her voice tired and desolate for her mother was known to her siblings to dismiss Old Nan’s tales. 

“You think I don’t know, child?” Catelyn’s voice shook as she pulled her daughter closer to her so that they might not be overheard from wandering ears, “The dreams you have been having of late, the fortunes you have told – I might not believe all the tales of the North, but I do have sense to know that the things my daughter of only thirteen sees in her sleep are not the stuff of _dreams_.” 

The girl jerked back, wondering how her mother knew of what she was dreaming about. Except for that first morning she woke and ran into her parents in the courtyard, her mother shouldn’t have any knowledge that her nightmares of war were numerous. Her mother’s lips curled up into a dry smile. 

“I overheard what you told your Father this morn, daughter, before I left to retrieve you a meal from fast. I know the power you claim to possess. You didn’t think I would come to live in a land without knowing of it’s lore?” the older woman brought her face close to her daughter’s ear, “I was skeptical, at first. I thought that the boys might have been speaking too freely around the ears of you girls but then I stayed and heard more. And what you foretold of this morn came true, despite having seen nothing of the royal household.” 

“You believe me?” Sansa asked, her voice sounding more like that of a little girl than she ever did since waking up seven days ago as her younger self. 

“I believe you saw what you saw,” Catelyn replied firmly, gripping her daughter’s shoulders, “And if there is a war coming, I need you to tell me with who and what side we are to fight on?” 

“I will,” she smiled through tears before snatching a handkerchief from the vanity and dabbing the signs of distress off her face, “I’ll explain everything to everyone, as soon as I think it is safe to do so. We need our family to be there, Mother, even Uncle Benjen. Including Theon and Jon.” 

“ _Sansa_ ,” her mother chastised, a grimace dawning her face at the names as she tried to turn away from her. 

“ **No!** ” the girl exclaimed, holding her mother’s arm and turning her around so that the older woman would listen, “I need you to hear me, please! _Please_ , don’t turn them away anymore. At least acknowledge them as they are. Jon, as being a son of the most honorable of the highborn nobles of Westeros and Theon, who is a highborn himself! If you continue to treat them so, you will lose all your children.” 

“Is this what you have seen?” Catelyn raised an eyebrow, mocking ringed around her tone. 

“No, it is what I feel.” 

Her mother jolted as if she had been slapped, “Sansa-“ 

Sansa took pity on the hurt expression on the older woman’s face and pulled her into a hug, “I love you, Mother, I always will. I just don’t want there to be any weakness with what’s to come. Your resentment is a weakness we can’t afford. Especially with these lions invading our household, prowling our halls and ordering our people. We need to stay on our guard, all of us as a house.” 

She turned back to her desk and picked up her mother abandoned. 

“I can do my hair now, Mother, if you wish to return to the hall.” 

The older woman didn’t say anything, staring at the back of a red headed girl that didn’t speak like the daughter she knew and loved. She spoke like someone who had seen violence and had violence acted upon her. Her voice was raw and severe, as if it spent a lifetime screaming and crying and was so different from her daughter’s usual soft-spoken tone. And the way she acted, the way she stood so that she met her eyes dead on, it was like that of soldiers and military commanders. 

Her daughter had become her father more and more since she woke up that morning seven days before, clinging to her and her husband like it had been years since she last saw them. Deep down inside, Catelyn Stark questioned whether that was true. 

\- 

The music from inside the hall could be heard from the Keep and the game from the last hunt could be smelt as Sansa walked out into the darkening evening. Her mouth salivated at the scent and her stomach rumbled with fierce hunger. Laying a hand over her stomach, she lifted her chin and approached the doors. 

Sansa glanced down at the loyal direwolf at her heels, “Are you as nervous as I am, Lady?” 

The wolf peered up at her with gentle eyes as if to comfort her. She smiled, “You’ll be with me.” 

She faced forward and walked into the warm room, where laughter and merry was loud in the air. 

It went silent as she made her way though. 

It was similar to the night when Arya and her first entered the hall with their direwolves. The Royal Household had not seen a direwolf in their entire lives and witnessing such a beast accompany a highborn girl was unfathomable. Sansa sensed that Joffrey and his mother were questioning just how much wine they had partaken in, as she knew that the Prince would participate in all royal customs including drinking. 

Or maybe it was just his unfortunate upbringing amongst two parents who favored wine above water. 

Sansa smiled brightly at her siblings and Theon, all smirking from where they were perched on the lower tables so that there was room for the Royal Household. Although, she could tell that they were pleasantly surprised. Not only because she chose to allow Lady to accompany her inside the hall, as they had wisely chosen to keep their wolves in the kennels for tonight, but because of the way she dressed and presented herself. 

Their sister had chosen to wear one of her own pieces, but one they had never seen before. It was Stark grey, alike to her earlier dress, but this one had the Heart Tree stitched in light blue from the trim of her gown and extending up into her sleeves with the burnt leaves sprouting from the branches. A tribute to the Old Gods, her father’s gods. Her sleeves and collar were laced with fur from rabbits, that she had bartered for when the last hunt came in and a wad of black material was wrapped around her waist and draped down the back of her gown to depict…. 

“A direwolf!” she heard a bannerman gasp, and whispers enveloped the hall. 

“Direwolves haven’t been sighted in centuries!” 

“Now one follows at the heels of a Stark girl?!” 

“I hear there’s one for all the Stark children, even the bastard Snow.” 

“Is it a blessing from the Old Gods?” 

“Long Live House Stark!” 

The last declaration, only a mere whisper as she strode past, seeped steel and ice into her bones and her back, stiffening her spine with a will. A will to survive, live and prosper. 

Winter Was Coming. And they would see it through and finished. 

She made it to the lower table, and curtsied to the King and Queen, “My King, My Queen.” 

The King nodded, staring intently at the wolf that settled itself down beside her. The Queen was too busy gaping at her to dismiss her, so she moved onto paying her respects to her parents. 

“My Lord Father, My Lady Mother,” she curtsied, peering up at them from lowered lashes. Her father was expressionless, although his eyes were soft as they gazed upon her. 

Her mother carried herself with grace, as she usually would, but the ghost of their words settled between them. Sansa nodded slightly, in order to convey the words that they both could not say in a room full of potential enemies. Catelyn eyes flashed with understanding and she looked beyond her daughter to the lions dressed as defenders of the stags and nodded back. 

Her father inclined his head, and she rose to join her siblings. She settled on the end of the bench, next to Jeyne Poole and across from Theon. The music started once more, and the men returned to talking amongst themselves, although Sansa felt the stares baring into her back. She heard the King mumble something to her father, who said something back that sent the King roaring in laughter. 

Robert Baratheon heaved himself off his seat and stumbled down to where the lowborn men and woman laughed and danced with one another. One would think the King might actually dine with the common people until you noticed the serving girls from Wintertown mixed amongst the bannerman, their breast heaving out of their dresses and their hair curled elaborately around their shoulders with fingers curled seductively around cups of wine. 

The kind the King liked most. She, of course, was referring to the wine. 

“You look beautiful tonight, Sansa,” Robb commented from where he sat beside Theon, leaning over to give her a winning smile, “You must make a dress of the like for our dear sister.” 

He waved his cup at Arya, who peered around Jon from where he sat beside Robb to glare at them both warningly, “ _Don’t you dare_.” 

Robb threw his head back laughing, and even Jon grinned down at the brown-haired girl in amusement. Sansa smiled warmly at Arya, her voice ringing with merriment and jest, “Don’t worry, Arya, the only cloth I will make for you will be a tunic or a cloak. I would never dare risk my life to make such a impractical outfit for such a warrior.” 

Someone choked on their drink. It was Theon, who had been silent the whole time and was now wiping at his mouth with his sleeve as he coughed. 

Jon raised an eyebrow at him, speaking lowly and in amusement, “Alright, Greyjoy?” 

Theon waved him off, taking another sip as he said around the rim of his cup, “Nothing. Just the thought of the little wolf in a dress.” 

Arya leaned forward, leaning on the table in a way that would make Septa Mordane faint so that she could meet the elder boy’s eyes when she growled, “Funny. I have the exact same feeling to you too.” 

“I don’t know about that,” Jon murmured so softly that Sansa had to strain to hear it, “I think Theon wouldn’t be that bad in a dress.” 

The Ironborn leaned across Robb, who had been set off with that comment once more, to get right in Jon’s face, “Say that again, Snow, and we’ll see how good I’ll look than.” 

“I never said you would look good. I just said you wouldn’t look that bad.” 

“Okay,” Sansa held a hand up at the both of them, “That’s enough. You both make a fair point. Theon wouldn’t look half bad in a dress. And wouldn’t look too good taking retribution out on Jon. I, on the other hand, would be beautiful no matter what.” 

“Here, here,” Theon raised his cup at her, grinning sardonically as she met his eyes. They shared that smile, the joke, the laughter and peace that was felt as if they were all equals for once and that they were just children and that there was no danger in the world, in that room. Just them. 

Peace did not last, for Theon remembered he was still angry at her, and Sansa remembered that they were not to be children for much longer and that there were dangers around every corner, dangers that followed every word and look exchanged between not just them, but everyone they loved. Most of them didn’t know it yet, but they were sitting amongst some of the key players on the board. And Sansa had already arranged plans for half of their deaths. Or at least plans that would ensure they would never hurt another person she loved again. 

A glint of gold caught the corner of her eye and she looked upon the high table to see Cersei Lannister, staring down at her from where she sat beside her mother. The Queen inclined her head, a simple and clear command for Sansa to join her on the dais. Sansa bit her tongue, the one that wanted nothing more than to curse Cersei and her like to the depths of the seven hells but at this stage in the game, that would be a death sentence. It would continue to be so until the final move that would end the Queen once and for all. 

So, like the obedient girl she was pretending to still be, she excused herself from the table. Ignoring the curious and wary eyes of her siblings and friends, she gracefully stepped up onto the dais and curtsied to the Queen and then to her Lady mother. 

“Your Grace,” she greeted, her voice a deceptively soft. 

“Hello, little dove,” the Queen replied, studying her from top to bottom as if she were looking at a fine meal she was to approve of before eating, “But you are a beauty. How old are you?” 

“Thirteen, your Grace,” Sansa responded, plastering on a sweet smile as she replayed the lines to this act in her head. She remembered every conversation she had with this woman and cursed herself for not realizing her indifference sooner. That beautiful smile that the blonde woman wore was nothing more than a trap to lure in prey before her, and her pride of lions, could play with it before slaughter. Like how one plays with food. Cersei forgets that she is in Stark territory. And that they are the predators, they are the beast that will come for them in packs. 

“You’re tall. Still growing?” 

“I think so, your Grace.” 

“And have you bled yet?” 

Catelyn blanched at the question, her face turning pale as bone as she stared at her daughter. Sansa knew this was coming and handled it with poise, “No, your Grace. I suspect I have a year or two to go before I become a woman.” 

“And your dress? Did you make it?” Cersei smiled up at her, teeth bared in barely concealed mocking, “Such talent. You must make something for me.” 

Sansa curtsied, “If it pleases you, your Grace.” 

She made to leave, until she was called back, “Your Grace?” 

Cersei’s eyes were trained on Lady, who was pacing the seats behind where Arya and Jon sat. Her lips curled up in a sneer that marred her beauty, twisting it into the Queen’s true form. 

“I hear that you might be joining us in King’s Landing, alongside your Lord father.” 

Sansa glanced at her mother, who seemed to plead with her not to inform the Queen about her opinions of the betrothal with the Prince. She smiled reassuringly at her before turning that same smile onto the Queen, “I was unaware of such plans. Of course, it would be an honor to have a place in your home and in court.” 

_It would be a nightmare, more like._

Cersei smirked as she lifted her goblet to her lips, wine sloshing in the glinting metal, “Of course, you would have to leave your…… **pet** ….. behind. Alas, it is improper for a highborn girl such as yourself to have such a _beast_ roaming around court.” 

Sansa didn’t say anything, especially not about the beast of a son that would roam the court in Lady's steed, merely whistling for her friend to come forth and meet her. Lady strode with more grace than the Queen herself to her side and as Sansa curtsied to the Queen, Lady also leaned forward, arising only when her mistress did. 

“Your Grace.” 

“Little dove.” 

_The little dove died long ago, Cersei. I am a wolf and I will not walk so willingly into your golden cage._

She turned with Lady, and they made their way to their seats, Sansa beside Jeyne and Lady at the foot of Sansa. She noticed Robb off to the side, chatting with her father and Uncle Benjen. Beaming happily, and getting to her feet with purpose, she had almost made it to them before an iron grip caught her arm. 

“Excuse me,” Sansa started before she noticed the Lannister red and gold. 

“I’m afraid I cannot, my Lady, without first asking for a dance,” Joffrey Baratheon replied, his lips curling back to reveal a smile like his mother’s. A carnal and dangerous smile. Ugliness in human form. 

She knew denying him a dance would cause a stir, an offense she had not the resources nor the support to risk making at such a time. It was only a dance and maybe if he had his fill of her, he would get bored and torment someone else with his company. Sansa curtsied, as best as she could with his hand bruising her arm and let him lead her out onto the dance floor. 

Skinny fingers pinched the skin at her waist and forced her to spin and turn to his delight. Joffrey always seemed to take immense pleasure out of pain and torment, and it seemed that he would always enjoy the suffering of her the most. Little did he know that she no longer felt the fear from his smile, nor the pain from where his fingers danced upon her bone. There were worse things than Joffrey Baratheon. 

“You are a lovely dancer, _my_ Lady Sansa,” he crooned, trying to make conversation with her. She didn’t miss how he said my, as if they were already married and he had her for years. His mother spoilt him too much, and the blame rested on Cersei’s shoulders for her son’s arrogance. 

“Thank you, my Prince. As are you,” she smiled, lying through her teeth. He clearly had no knowledge of any of the Northern songs nor their dances and had even yelled at the musicians to change to a song and dance they would all know. Sansa knew every song and dance by heart that they played, much to Joffrey’s chagrin, as he tried to keep up with her measured and well-timed steps. 

The bastard snarled, morphing into a sneer as he stopped her, “How about you let **_me_** lead, my Lady?” 

“Of course, my Prince,” she curtsied, not letting his anger faze her as she waited patiently for him to ready himself so that they might join in the dance. He was not on time when they started once more, and Sansa resisted the urge to roll her eyes as he moved them roughly across the floor. 

“May I cut in, _Princeling_?” a low voice inquired from behind her, and she turned to meet the ocean blue eyes of it's owner, and a smile that was curled in such amusement, that one would miss the anger that radiated off him. 

“Get lost, pirate scum. I’m dancing with the lady and I shall continue dancing with her for the rest of the night,” Joffrey snarled, tugging Sansa forward as he went toe to toe with Theon Greyjoy. 

The blonde boy did not even reach the Ironborn’s shoulders and seemed to realize this, growing angrier. His fingers squeezed around her wrist and she gritted her teeth to keep from crying out. 

Theon saw this and he ignored the Prince to look to her, “Are you alright, my Lady?” 

Sansa tried to smile, but then it happened. 

She heard more than felt the snap of her wrist and couldn’t hold back the gasp that escaped her. Pain shot up her arm and burned at her broken joint when Joffrey didn’t relinquish his hold. 

“Sansa!” Theon exclaimed, pushing Joffrey aside so that he had no choice but to let go of her. Theon cradled her hand in his gently, observing her wrist as it started to swell and bloom with bruises. 

“It’s been popped from it's socket!” he growled, torn between turning around and beating the Prince within an inch of his life and staying to make sure that Sansa didn’t suffer any longer, “Fucking hell.” 

Theon jerked his head up at her, eyes wide, “Forgive me, I –“ 

“It’s _fine_ ,” she hissed, her eyes watering, “You took the words right out of my mouth.” 

“Right,” he said in a daze, as his eyes wondered the room until they found who he was looking for. He gestured to someone that Sansa couldn’t see and led her behind a pillar away from prying eyes. Robb and Jon joined them, as did Arya when she followed Lady, who got to all fours all of a sudden and bounded away with a growl that could be overheard even amongst all the chatter in the hall. 

“What happened? Is everything alright?” Jon asked, getting there first and taking in the way Theon’s jaw clenched and Sansa’s eyes teared up as she cradled her hand gingerly to her chest. 

“That fucking _**prick**_ snapped your sister’s wrist,” snarled Theon, turning as if to attack the Prince. 

“ _What?!_ ” 

“Joffrey?” 

“I’m going to **kill** him!” 

“No!” Sansa shouted, snatching Robb’s arm with her good hand, “Just help me, _please_. It **hurts** , Robb.” 

Her brother’s face flushed with guilt as he came back to her, “Forgive me, sister.” 

“Forgiven. Just stop the pain,” she gasped out. Her composure was crumbling and though Sansa felt worse pains, she could not deny the burning in her wrist. 

Robb gingerly took her hand in his, his other hovering above the injured area, “I’m going to have to pop it back in place. It will hurt even more than it does now, but only for a second.” 

“Just _do it_ , Robb!” she cried out, and before she could blink, he shoved her wrist back into place. 

Her scream was muffled by a callous hand, and she looked up at Theon with gratitude. He nodded back; his eyes still full of cold fury. 

“Are you okay?” Jon asked quietly. She glanced at him in reassurance, giving him a wet smile. 

“What happened, Sansa?” Arya questioned, her voice taking an edge that promised violence to whoever hurt her. Before she could explain, Theon interrupted. 

“Robb asked me to go save Sansa from the little princeling and when I tried to get a dance with her, the brat got angry. That’s when I heard a snap and your sister looking like she got an arrow in ‘er.” 

“Thank you, _Sansa_ ,” the little Stark rolled her eyes before looking at her older sister, “Is that what _really_ happened?” 

“You don’t believe me?!” the Ironborn boy exclaimed outraged. Three ‘ **SHUT UP THEON** ’s followed. 

Sansa nodded, leaning on the pillar in exhaustion, “It is as Theon said. The Prince had been holding onto me to the point of causing pain and then it went beyond that, to cause me injury.” 

“He must be punished!” Arya yelled indignantly, turning to run off to their father. Her older sister grabbed her by her shoulders, wincing at the jerk to her wrist. 

“We _can’t_!” she hissed into her ear and continued to whisper to them all so that they would not be overheard, “We will tell Father, but not here and not now. There is more going on than any one of you know and I need to tell him about something much more important than some prince holding my hand too tightly.” 

“He didn’t just ‘hold your hand too tightly’, my Lady,” Theon said sarcastically, “He bloody popped your wrist out of it's socket.” 

“And Robb popped it back,” Sansa argued, holding her hand up to prove her point, “While he did cause me harm, he is still a prince and it’s our word against his. We must be patient, for justice comes with time, not recklessness born of pride or revenge born of anger.” 

“Sansa,” Robb began, stepping closer with a furrowed brow, “What did you mean when you said you need to tell Father something serious? What could be more serious than someone causing you harm?” 

“Does it have something to do with your….” Jon looked over his shoulder and at the men around them before continuing in that quiet voice of his, “Your dreams.” 

She hesitated. She couldn’t trust the men around them, not even her father’s bannermen for everyone could be swayed with a bit of coin and the promise of power. She wanted to tell them, but the hall was full of too many enemies and not enough allies. The time for truths would have to wait but she could settle their curiosity and concern. 

“It does but I cannot say how or why. Not here and not now,” she repeated, making sure she conveyed the seriousness of her words, “ _Later_.” 

“I’m holding you to that, sister,” Robb warned, giving her a stern look before leading her back to the lower table where Jeyne sat making idle conversation with Princess Myrcella. 

“As am I,” the other three whispered beneath their breaths as they followed them. 

Robb leaned down to whisper in Jeyne ear. Blushing red at having the Heir of Winterfell so close, she shuffled down the bench so that the siblings and Theon could all take their seats. This time Sansa was between Theon and Robb, with Arya and Jon directly across from them. Jeyne was seated next to Jon, and Myrcella and Tommen Baratheon were seated beside them. They all heard the sound of boots stomping up the dais and Sansa felt him behind her before she even heard his voice. 

“You dirty **pirate** ,” Joffrey shouted, grabbing Theon by the shoulder and pulling him back. Theon barely budged from his position, but he turned all the same to look the Prince in the eye. 

“If you put hands on me again, I will go to Lord Eddard and tell him of how you broke his daughter’s wrist. If you approach either me or the Starks without our say so, you will _regret_ it. Is that understood, Princeling?” 

The blonde boy snorted, not moving his hand but instead tightening it on the furs that rested on the older boy’s shoulders, “Like you have any power over what I can and can not do. I’m the future **_king_** , Greyjoy, and I shall do as I please. Rebel _**scum**_ like you have no place making threats to me.” 

Robb stood up on the other side of Sansa, leaning forward to whisper in Joffrey’s ear, “Aye but I do. I would heed his warning and walk away, before I do what I have wanted to do since I had to pop my sister’s wrist back into it’s socket and beat you _within an inch of your life_.” 

The Prince wobbled back at the look in the eldest Stark boys eyes, and as he whipped his head around he found that same look in all their eyes, even the young Stark girl. The boy looked down at Sansa and nearly tripped over himself to back away from the group. For she was smiling a wolf’s smile. One that promised bloodshed should he continue with his threats. Joffrey was a pig-headed git, but he knew when he was outnumbered, and cowered very easily to conflict such as this. 

“You will **pay** for this!” he spat at them, straightening his collar and stomping up to the High table, presumably to whine to his mother about how rude they were being. He’d probably even ask for their heads. But he was not King yet and only Robert had the power to call for execution, something he would never do to his best friend’s children. 

_Unless, of course, he found out about Jon._

Luckily for them, the only people that knew were her, her Father, her Uncle Benjen and Howland Reed. None of whom would give Ned Stark up for as long as they lived. 

“What was that about?” asked Jeyne, who had been holding her hand to her throat with shock throughout the whole exchange. They all exchanged looks, but it was surprisingly Myrcella who answered for them. 

“From what I gathered, my brother has already managed to overstep his welcome despite it only being our first night here,” she sighed, pushing the food on her plate around in a way that would make Septa Mordane die right then and there. The young Princess gave Sansa a soft look, sadness wrapped around her like a cloak, “I know better than anyone the torments of my brother.” 

Sansa frowned, concerned and disturbed about what the girl could be implying. Had she been so consumed with her own suffering during her time in King’s Landing that she had not noticed Myrcella and Tommen being confronted with the same nightmare that she had? Had their royal status only saved them from public humiliation, where they would face pain only in private? 

The eldest Stark girl might have grown cold in the days leading up to her death. She might have willed herself to steel, but she did not want to end up as frozen and as unfeeling as the dead that they would face. This was her second chance at life, at prosperity. She wanted to experience everything she and her family were denied. She wanted to be cunning, cautious and always one step ahead, but she didn’t want to sacrifice her heart to survive. 

She didn’t want to become the likes of Cersei Lannister. 

She decided at that moment, she would not let Myrcella and Tommen suffer the fate they did in their last life. If she could forgive Theon for betraying their house, then she could forgive the two children for being born Lannisters. 

In the end, it wouldn’t matter if they were lions or not. The living was the living and that’s how they shall stay. 

Sansa smiled across at the girl and felt her heart warm at a Lannister as the Princess smiled back. 

\- 

The pain in her hand had started to die down and she could almost forget about what had occurred between her, Joffrey and Theon. She had spent most of the evening laughing and smiling, relishing in the innocence that surrounded the children like the warmth of a hearth. Even Theon had forgone his anger at her, sharing jests and banter with herself and Robb as if there was no harm done. 

But as the King stumbled to his seat at the High table, that warmth turned to frost and as if summoned by the presence of the Crown, her hand started to ache and quiver. 

Sansa placed it on her lap and sat up in her seat, followed quickly by Robb and Jon. Arya and Theon laid back, as if the King was an act in a play and they were enjoying a performance. It was ironic. After all, Robert Baratheon was just that. A play King. 

The once great man clapped his old friend on the back. Her father did not budge but was uncomfortable with the amount of wine his friend had indulged in. 

“Ned, thank you for housing me and my lot. I’m going to head in now,” Robert announced, the red liquid in the goblet he raised sloshing over the brim. The Queen sniffed her nose beside him, eyeing the drink with the wariness one would find when eyeing a snake. Robert leaned closer, almost falling on his friend and attempted to whisper, “I got a pretty young thing waiting for me.” 

His _whisper_ could be heard from all the way in the very back of the hall. Sansa noticed Cersei’s face turn pale and twist in on itself, as if she was about to be sick. If color was to return to the Queen’s face, it would be red. Anger and humiliation poured from her in silence, like the liquid that poured onto her husband’s chest as he threw back his goblet in one go. 

Everybody stood and knelt to the drunkard parading in a crown and waited until his heavy grunts could no longer be heard before standing up. It was silent for a moment before the Queen, too, rose from her seat. She turned to the Lord of Winterfell with a carefully crafted blankness that betrayed none of the passionate spite she felt. 

“Lord Stark, I too shall retire for the night,” she extended her hand for him to kiss, and he took it with the gentleness and honor he bestowed on all ladies of noble birth, “No need to offer anyone to escort me. I know where my chambers are.” 

Ned nodded and bowed, “Your Grace.” 

Cersei inclined her head; the slightest modicum of respect she could summon for a man she had no love for, before making her way down from the dais, staring over the heads that had turned to watch her when a couple of bannerman came up to offer her a hand down. She started forward, not bothering to wait for her children to join her as it seemed that on cue, all three of them lunged up from where they had been dining, Joffrey more enthusiastically than his younger siblings, and walked behind her all the way out of the Great Hall without so much as an acknowledgement to the Lord and Lady who had welcomed them, or the children that had entertained them, one way or another, for more of the feast. 

Sansa didn’t blame the two youngest Lannisters, knowing that if they didn’t catch up with their mother, she was most certain to leave them to find their own way to their quarters in the dark. Joffrey was predictably rude and to hope for any humbleness or humility from him was to hold out any hope for the fate of Westeros with a Lannister on the throne. 

Total and utter desolation would be the answers to whoever was stupid enough to hope such things. Good thing Sansa didn’t intend to leave a Lannister sitting on the throne long enough for that to happen. She had other candidates in mind, but before she could think too far ahead, she had to get through this trial first and foremost in order to have her own hopes and ambitions met with the satisfaction she craved. 

_Cersei and her bastard son will fall and it will be a Stark that fells them._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things I would like to make clear:  
> \- My Catelyn Stark is probably OCC from the woman that you all have come to know and love but it is my intention to show the complexities of this woman as a mother, a wife and a person with the ability to command power. In my opinion, her resentment of Theon and Jon needed to be addressed and I believe that it would make a beautiful arc to show her go from someone distancing them to someone who would come to rely on one or both of them like she would for any of her children. I can understand if the character I am portraying is nowhere near the woman you know but this is me, demonstrating my habit of playing around with complex personalities.  
> \- I also understand that Myrcella might be a bit OCC too but that is on purpose. I would like for her to build a relationship with the Starks, especially with Sansa - they were both cruelly tormented by Joffrey and they have younger sibling/s that they would protect with their life.


	10. What Was, What Is, What Will Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa let out a frustrated groan before snapping, “ _Listen_ , you can’t all come with me to speak to Father. It would look – it would draw attention we _really_ do not need. Just – wait for me in Bran and Rickon’s room. I promise I will explain things then, but I need you – I need you to _trust me_.” 
> 
> The four of them looked at her in silence, the noise of their bannermen a distant thing compared to the careful consideration on their face before Jon spoke up suddenly. 
> 
> “You’ll tell us everything?” 
> 
> She felt her brows soften at the silent question, _even me?_
> 
> “Yes. Now I need to go.” 
> 
> Sansa spun on her heel and began to climb down from the platform when Theon’s voice called out to her in a false, merry tone, “We’ll hold you to that, my Lady!” 
> 
> _That’s what I’m afraid of._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't updated in two months. Had really bad case of writers block and it is only through extreme concentration that I managed to finish this chapter at all. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter and I can't wait to hear what you think!

It was only after the mother and her children departed from the feast that Sansa had the chance to greet her uncle. Theon had gotten up from the table to help her out of her seat so that she didn’t strain her wounded wrist trying to help herself up. Robb, Jon and Arya reacted similarly, all offering to accompany her down the steps to which she smiled at, knowing that they only wanted to help but arguing that she was only going down to the lower tables. 

Nevertheless, she found Arya by her side, the younger girl insisting that it was not to hover over her but because she too wanted to meet their uncle. If memory still served her, Sansa could almost recall the exact words she used were, “Not everything is about you, Sansa!” 

That is why the red headed girl had to hide her smile when she ‘tripped’ on her way down the steps and Arya immediately went to steady her with a panicked glance at her wrist. Some may argue that she should not waste time stirring up her sister and focus on discussing the Wall with her uncle but she could not help but enjoy her sister’s attention, now that she was as young and as alive and as carefree as she used to be. 

Before they went South and their lives fell into chaos and darkness, that is. 

Shaking off the shadow that came with the thought, she plastered on a mostly genuine smile as she watched one of their bannermen gesture towards them, drawing Benjen Stark’s attention to the two girls approaching. The older man beamed at the sight of them, a strange and almost bittersweet sight to the older of the two who took for granted their uncle’s presence in Winterfell in the time of before and who never took much of an interest in the life he led on the Wall. 

After all, any life that deprived one of princes and knights and of love was no life at all to the Sansa of before. 

The Sansa of now knew better. She knew that the Wall was one of the most significant points in the entire world, especially with the events to come. Alongside the political turmoil of King’s Landing and the rise of the dragons in the East, the Wall was a place she needed to keep an eye on. She could not afford to leave it unchecked and Benjen was one of the people who could offer her that scrutiny, knowing that there was someone up there who was loyal to her family, that she could trust to take seriously of anything on or Beyond the Wall that would cause those in Westeros concern. 

“My lady nieces,” he stood up with a smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners in the same way their father’s did when he beheld them, “What do I owe the pleasure of your company?” 

Arya pulled a face at the reference to her being a lady and Sansa could not help but laugh before she wrapped her arms around her uncle’s shoulders in a move that surprised them both, “It is good to see you, Uncle. It has been a while.” 

“I suppose it has,” he murmured before pulling back to consider her, “It must for you to grow this tall! My, you’re almost as tall as me!” 

“Almost,” Sansa jested with a playful smile, enjoying the way her uncle’s eyes widened in surprise before she turned to throw a mirthful look at Arya from beside her, “Although, Arya might surprise us all and grow to tower over both of us.” 

Arya scowled at the remark about her height, and Benjen turned his smile to the younger Stark girl but his eyes grew wistful as he took notice of just how much she had grown into the spitting image of his older sister. 

“She might,” Benjen inclined his head before picking up his young niece’s hands, thumbs running over the makings of the callousness he felt in her palms as he leaned in conspiratorially, “But I don’t think so. You look a lot like Lyanna. Your aunt was a slight one too but that didn’t make her any less a fighter if I ever saw one.” 

Sansa was shocked, standing silently as Arya smirked up at their uncle. He had whispered softly enough that no passer would have heard him but nevertheless, it was strange to hear him talk of his late sister so freely. Although, he might feel it safer to speak her name now that Robert Baratheon was not around to throw a tantrum over it. It felt strange indeed to hear of her aunt with such warmth. While a sadness clouded his eyes at the mention of his older sister, his lips were still pulled up in a wistful smile. 

Her father talked of their aunt from time to time but it was always with a somberness that kept Sansa quiet from asking questions. She knew what mostly everyone knew of Lyanna Stark. That she was once a great beauty, so much so that Rhaegar Targaryen crowned her the Queen of Love and Beauty over his own wife and mother of his children. She was beautiful enough that he stole her away, causing the war that changed the fate of Westeros forever. 

No one really spoke of her like their Uncle Benjen spoke of her though, as if she were just his sister and not the spearhead to Robert Baratheon’s crusade. She had been told by Bran that Arya had taken after their aunt, as he found when he had a vision of the past. That Lyanna was just as much a fighter as her brothers, a skilled rider with the same fierce strength and wild spirit she found in her younger sister. 

But to have Benjen talk of her like that…it brought a sort of wetness to her eyes. Not tears exactly, for Sansa did not quite know what would bring her to tears but it felt all very bittersweet. As if she this was something hidden and she had found it by giving herself the chance to see it. 

As always, time was not on her side. She knew Benjen would be leaving after the feast to return to his duties Beyond the Wall, but she could not let him go without warning him. 

“Uncle, I know that duty requires you back to the Watch, but would it be too much to ask that I speak with you and Father before you go?” Sansa asked quietly, her eyes sliding to peer at the many bannermen surrounding them, both Stark and Baratheon alike, before she leaned in to whisper, “Somewhere where we are less likely to be overheard, yes?” 

Benjen’s dark brows furrowed deeply at the strange request from his niece, wondering what on earth _Sansa of all people_ would want to discuss with him. Though he would not claim to be particularly close with his brother’s children - all except Robb and Jon - the rest having been too young or too set on a path that deviated very far from the one he walked, he liked to think that he knew their minds and hearts quite well. 

It was true that it had been a while since he had the opportunity to travel to Winterfell – if he could recall correctly, it was the summer before last and it was only briefly – Benjen still knew who his nieces and nephews were quite vividly. Last time he had seen Arya, she was sneaking around with a wooden sword she had stolen from one of her brothers, yelling at the Septa that she did not want to join her sister in the Tower for her lessons and instead wanted to learn alongside her brothers. From the face she pulled when he greeted her as lady, it would be safe to assume she still held quite the opposition to anything even remotely feminine. 

Sansa, however, had changed from the girl he last saw. She no longer shied away from him, pert little nose no longer wrinkled up in distaste or disinterest at what he had to say or what news he brought from the Wall. Most importantly, there was a haunted gleam in her eyes that was not there before. Nor, should it be there. She was, what? Ten and three? Those blue eyes of hers should still be glimmering with childish wonder and naivety but as she stood before him with her gaze travelling from his own to the men surrounding them, he could not claim that of her anymore. 

He found himself nodding in reply to her request, his frown only growing deeper as he warned her, “I must start off before dawn.” 

The red headed girl nodded in return, her face pinched with a graveness that only sought to summon shadows over own his heart as she murmured back, “I will tell Father. Until then, Uncle.” 

With another curt nod, she turned away and inevitably caught her Father’s eye from where he was conversing with her mother up on the High Table. Lifting up her skirts, she made haste to approach him and was unsurprised when he stood up to meet her halfway. 

Reaching out a hand to touch her elbow, he led her to the corner of the room, turning back only once to see if they had drawn the suspicions of anyone in attendance before finally looking to her, “What is it, Sansa?” 

“I need to talk to Uncle Benjen before he leaves for the Wall. I need you to be there when I do.” 

“Does this have anything to do with what you saw in your dreams?” 

“Yes.” 

Ned Stark did not say a word as he gazed into his daughter’s eyes. He did not need to question her dreams, nor of the abilities she seemed to possess by having those dreams. His proof was found in the catacombs of the Keep, in front of the tomb of his late sister. His friend had all but confirmed his daughter’s fears, and his own, by what he proposed in front of Lyanna’s likeness. 

Ned knew that what his daughter had to say could not wait. 

“I will send everybody off. I want you to go now to my study and wait for me there.” 

“I will,” she nodded quickly before reaching out to halt him as he turned back to the tables, “Father?” 

“Yes?” 

“Ask Mother to come with you. What I have to say, she needs to know.” 

Her father stilled slightly, and Sansa thought she saw something akin to fear pass over his eyes before it vanished, steel grey eyes hardening as he gave her a brisk nod before turning back to the tables. She followed after him, deviating to sit amongst her siblings and Theon before she had to stand up as her father declared, “I would like to thank those who joined me on the hunt to provide for this feast and for those that helped prepare it. May each and every single one of you enjoy and rest well with full bellies. Excuse me and my wife while we retire for the evening.” 

Cheers followed in his wake and Sansa bit back a grin as Benjen slammed his cup on the tables below the platform with a hearty, ‘Here, here’ before knocking it back, the bannerman echoing it with jolly laughter and claps on the back. She took that moment to let her chest warm as she looked around the room where her father’s men lounged with grins on their faces and cheeks red from smiling. They were surrounded by good food, good mead and good music and she wished that it were always that way. 

If only she could say that they sat amongst good men but alas, that would be the cruelest of lies. 

She gathered her skirts in one hand and made to follow her mother and father, and her Uncle Benjen for she saw him move in the crowd, his black hair disappearing into the night outside, when a hand caught her arm. 

Robb stared down at her with a raised brow, “Where do you think you’re going?” 

Sansa sighed, gently prying his fingers off of her before murmuring, “I have to go talk to Father.” 

“You said you would tell us what’s going on!” Arya spoke up, coming around the table to Robb’s side, her arms folded to her chest as she scrunched up her nose, “If you’re going to talk to him, we’ll come along.” 

“No, Arya, you don’t understand – “ 

“How about explaining for once then?” Theon drawled from where he was still sitting, sipping on a cup of mead as he turned to look up at her, “Gods know that would be helpful once in a while.” 

Sansa let out a frustrated groan before snapping, “ _Listen_ , you can’t all come with me to speak to Father. It would look – it would draw attention we _really_ do not need. Just – wait for me in Bran and Rickon’s room. I promise I will explain things then, but I need you – I need you to _trust me_.” 

The four of them looked at her in silence, the noise of their bannermen a distant thing compared to the careful consideration on their face before Jon spoke up suddenly. 

“You’ll tell us everything?” 

She felt her brows soften at the silent question, _even me?_

“Yes. Now I need to go.” 

Sansa spun on her heel and began to climb down from the platform when Theon’s voice called out to her in a false, merry tone, “We’ll hold you to that, my Lady!” 

_That’s what I’m afraid of._

\- 

Sansa cringed as the floorboards creaked under her footsteps and curled her fingers up in the skirts of her dress, lifting them off the ground as she hurried to her father’s study. When she came to the door, she let out the breath she had been holding before raising her hand to knock, hesitating just as her knuckles grazed the wood. 

This was it. This was the moment that she had been waiting for. Not _the_ moment, for there were many moments she could claim as such, but it was the first of many in the future that she sought. In the future she planned to change. 

_He needs to know…they all need to know. Mother especially._

Closing her eyes as if it gave her the strength to do what needed to be done, she knocked on the wood three times before waiting patiently, her hands returning to rest in her skirts. The night air was chilling as it swept up her hair and sent shivers down her back, reminding her that it would only get colder in coming months. 

They would never know summer after this and if she failed, they would never know summer again. 

The door swung open to Uncle Benjen’s grim set face and she lifted her chin as the words of her house rang inside her head. 

_Winter is Coming, and the Stark’s **will** survive, to the Old Gods and the New, I swear it._

“Sansa,” Benjen murmured quietly, his eyes darting to both sides of her before he questioned, “Are you alone?” 

“Yes.” 

“Come in.” 

She walked forward and each step she took was accompanied by the hard, heavy thump of her heart in her chest. A fire raged in the fireplace to her left, casting a warm glow that was at odds with the chill that had come into the room from her entrance. Her mother was sitting at a chair next to it for it’s warmth but she rose when she saw her daughter enter, her brows knotted and her eyes wide with the fret of what her daughter’s presence on this night could mean, especially after their conversation in her quarters. Her father sat behind his desk, stiffening in his chair as Sansa walked further into the room until she stood in front of him. 

They were silent for a long time, all eyes on her and she cleared her throat before saying aloud. 

“I suppose you all must have your questions.” 

Benjen snorted from where he was leaning against the wall, “I sure do, lass.” 

The dark-haired man kicked off the wall, coming around to stand beside her father as he continued, “You said you had something urgent to speak about with me before I went off. What of it?” 

Sansa took a seat in the spare chair in front of the desk, stalling for time to gain the courage to speak the words aloud by making sure she was situated comfortably, brushing her skirts over her knees before she looked up at her uncle and father’s expectant faces. 

“What do you know of what’s occurring Beyond the Wall?” 

Benjen’s mouth tightened but he didn’t answer. At least, not to her question. 

“What do _you_ know of it?” 

She had expected this. Alas, she expected a lot from men. Arrogance and ignorance was a common expectation, one that made itself known in the early days of the coming conflict. She had all but forgotten it because in the end, they all turned out to be fools. 

“You will _find_ , Uncle, that I know more than you would think. And perhaps, dare say, **_more than you_**.” 

Benjen reared back at his niece’s aggressive tone and he turned to level a shocked look at his brother, as if he could give him the answers as to what was wrong with the red headed girl in front of them. 

Ned didn’t glance up at him, instead choosing to stare somberly at his daughter as he asked, “Sansa, what do you know?” 

Sansa drew her gaze away from her uncle with a sigh, her eyes darkening with the knowledge she was about to make known to not only her father and mother, but her uncle as well. 

“I know that the conflict with the Wildlings' has only grown and that it has become a great concern for those of the Watch. The amount of Wildlings sneaking over the Wall in large numbers should no longer bring about the question of _why_ they are here, but rather the question of what is over there that would cause them so to come here.” 

Sansa watched as her father shifted to glare up at her uncle, a silent question growing in his eyes and she knew it most likely had something to do with the Night’s Watch deserter. She had questioned for a while now on what they had told her father to make up for the man’s deluded ravings of White Walkers and dead Wildlings. A lot of the answers to her questions were exchanged in that one look shared between brothers before it disappeared as eyes of coal and eyes of steel hardened over as they turned to her once more. 

The red headed girl inclined her head at the silent order for her to continue, “I know that the Wildlings have a king. Mance Rayder, the King Beyond the Wall. One that adheres to the freedom the Wildlings crave, the one that will not bow for any power, for any king that he comes across. In this he represents the Free Folk and all they stand for so tell me – what is so horrible, so _terrifying_ that the Wildlings would risk their freedom by coming South of the Wall?” 

“You saw this? In your dreams?” Ned asked quietly, causing Benjen to snap his head between father and daughter so fast that Sansa feared it would do him harm. 

“ _Dreams?_ You can’t mean to suggest - ?!” Benjen exclaimed before stopping to consider the look in his young niece’s eyes. It was a look of such haunting, such grim, such darkness that he shut his mouth as his brother sighed. 

“It’s true, I’m afraid. Sansa has been given the gift of sight.” 

“That can’t be! Greenseers haven’t been seen in centuries!” 

“And yet I know what I know and I’ve seen what I’ve seen,” Sansa interrupted in a strong voice that didn’t belong to the girl of ten and three but the woman who had escaped from the den of lions, from the gilded cage, from the kennels of hounds to finally take her place as the Lady of Winterfell. 

That was who spoke to them as she rose from her seat with a grace that was as natural to her as it would a queen. 

“Mark my words when I tell you that I know what was, what is and what _**will**_ be. Ignore me if you will but if you want to ensure the salvation of this House, of this kingdom, _you **will** listen to what I have to say!_” 

The men fell silent at her declaration and she fought back the urge to smile in satisfaction. She had not had the opportunity to silence a man in quite some time and it strengthened her soul to have the chance to do it now, especially when what she had to say held more worth than their wasteful queries. 

Now that she had their attention, she continued on, moving to prowl the floor in front of them as she spoke, “In the coming moons, we will find ourselves fighting wars on all sides. It is _paramount_ to our survival and the survival of the kingdom that we prepare ourselves with the upmost discretion. Do you understand me?” 

Her uncle did not know of what she was referring to but her father nodded and her mother came to stand at her side, a hand to her arm as she asked in a quiet voice, “Is this what you saw in your dreams? Are you to tell us which side and who we will be fighting against?” 

“No,” Sansa replied, stepping away from her mother’s arm and turning away from the confusion on her face to warn, “I am telling you what you will need to know in order to decide for yourself. Do not be fooled into thinking that the war down here will be as important as the growing power that builds Beyond the Wall.” 

_Or across the Narrow Sea, but I dare not tell them of the Dragon Queen yet. Not when I do not have the answers on how to proceed with facing the blood and fire she will bring when she turns her eye to Westeros._

“The Wildlings?” Benjen started, his eyes darkening in concern. 

Sansa resisted the laughter that bubbled in her throat as she shook her head. 

“It isn’t the living you should worry about, Uncle, but rather what happens after,” she told him with a knowing look, “The whispers and screams of White Walkers are true. They have returned and so has the King that they serve. The King that cares naught for politics, for wars, for power, for pleasure or for any earthly desires. They serve a King who wants nothing but to covert every single living thing into his army of the dead and he will _not_ stop at Westeros.” 

“Child, what you speak of is mere legend. There is no record of there being any King like the one you described, nothing that would suggest he has ever existed.” 

“Every legend is born of truth. Even the one of the Night King. He is the truest of them all and I have seen a future where he has not only existed but has prevailed over us all!” 

_The cold clammy touch of Arya’s skin. The brittle strands of Bran’s hair. The blood dripping down Theon’s lips. The sword of ice that ran through my heart._

_I have never known cold like the kiss of that sword. Like the kiss of Death._

“Sansa – “ 

“You do not have to believe me, Uncle,” she cut him off, feeling the dampness on her cheeks and deciding quickly to not bother washing them away, lest they aid in convincing him of the sincerity of her terror of this so-called future she saw. 

_It is no difference whether I lived it or saw it. It is real all the same._

“You will see soon enough.” 

_So will we all._

Shaking her head clear of the foreboding thoughts that darkened her mind, she straightened her back and stared at both men with a determined glint in her eye as she declared, “That is why we must have eyes Beyond the Wall, eyes that we trust, eyes that are loyal to our family and to the interest of this kingdom.” 

_I know it will not be permanent, that he will return to us, but it hurts me all the same._

“Eyes that will not sway but rather see past the veil of lies, of propriety, to the truths that lay within.” 

_He will forgive me for this. He will forgive me and perhaps, it will not have to be as it once was._

“Eyes that will survive the harshness of winter, of the cold it brings.” 

_I will write to him, to let him know. To warn him, to make sure he is okay. To tell him that he stays within our hearts, even as far north as the Wall._

“Eyes that will stay faced Beyond the Wall until the time comes when those eyes can return to Winterfell.” 

“Lass, only those of the Night’s Watch can do as you describe,” Benjen started in quiet, regretful voice, as if he was trying to tell a child no, “And I am only one man.” 

“I know this, Uncle. That is why,” Sansa took a deep breathe before she revealed, “Jon Snow will be accompanying you to the Night’s Watch, for the sake of the House, for the sake of the North and for his own sake as well.” 

\- 

“What do you– “ 

“How did you know – “ 

“Sansa, it is not your – “ 

“ _ **I know**_.” 

The swiftness in which the room fell silent struck her as odd and it was only than she realized the danger of the knowledge she held, that two words that could mean almost anything could send the fear of truth into the hearts of the two Stark men before her. 

She had never seen her father so scared, not even the day he died when he looked at her from across the platform as he was led out in chains and made to kneel at Joffrey’s feet while the crowd jeered and thrown foods and garbage at him like a dog. There was no fear that day, only a weariness for what was to come. 

No, the fear that pooled within her father’s eyes was unlike any she had ever seen as he rose from his chair slowly, one hand braced against his desk as if to help him to his feet while the other was held out in front of him, his palm facing hers as he told her in a dangerously, low voice, “ **Don’t**.” 

“I’m afraid that it needs to be said, Father. Mother _needs_ to know – “ 

“ _If_ you know, then you would also know why it can **never** said! Especially at a time like _this_! Not to anyone, not for anyone or anything, kingdoms and Gods be damned!” 

“Then you damn us all then!” she exclaimed, kicking back the chair in her rage as she approached the desk, slamming her hands down on it hard as she whispered to him harshly, “Look at me! _Look at me!_ I am your daughter, bound to this family by blood and by birthright. I will do whatever is necessary to preserve us, to preserve this house. We cannot afford your weakness, not now and not for what is to come!” 

“I made a promise to her – “ 

“It is a promise that will cause the destruction of this family if it causes you to keep your trust from us!” 

“Ned, what is she talking about?” her mother asked frantically as she came to join them at the desk, moving to her daughter’s side. 

“Tell her, Father!” Sansa urged him, pleaded with him – before a cold, hard look came across her eye as she threatened, “Or _I_ will.” 

“Tell me _what_?!” Catelyn cried out. 

Her father shook his head at her, “ _Sansa_ \- “ 

“Can’t you see? Aunt Lyanna wouldn’t want this promise to do this – to – to do what it has done to you for sixteen years! What it has done to you, to Mother, to _him_!” she threw her hands towards the door, to the outside of the study where somewhere in the Keep, a boy sat at a table with a small, spitfire of a girl next to him and two boys, his best friends, across from him making bets on the red headed girl that had walked out with a heaviness that didn’t suit her, “If you can’t trust your own family to keep this promise with you, then what good is it to call us family at all!” 

Her father shook his head, hanging it low to his collarbone as he tried to ignore the words she hurled at him, her uncle’s hand clasping his shoulder in solidarity of the conflict he found himself with as they stood on the opposite side of the table from the two females. Little did he know that there was no use in fighting within himself over what to say when he didn’t need to say anything at all. 

“Lyanna?” Catelyn’s voice questioned quietly, causing all three of them to stiffen at what may follow, “A promise? Seventeen years? Him – _oh my_!” 

Her mother clasped a hand over her mouth as she looked up at her husband, meeting his eyes with tear filled ones as all the secrets, all the lies, all the heartbreak came together to the realization of what he brought back to them all those years ago from the war that was waged down south. 

_I see this woman, this woman who managed to bore a boy who looked more like the son of a Stark than any other children I ever produced._

“Ned? Is he – is he-” 

“Catelyn – “ 

“Cat – “ 

“ _Oh my gods!_ ” the red headed woman cried out, falling back into the chair with a hand to her stomach as she cried. 

Sansa stumbled to her knees beside her mother, taking a hold of her arm as she observed her for signs that she might faint from shock and whispered quietly, “Mother, Mother, are you alright?” 

“I can’t believe it! I can’t believe it!” Catelyn muttered to herself, the hand on her mouth sliding to her throat as she looked up at her husband who had come around his desk to kneel in front of her, his hands on her knees as he considered her with pleading eyes as she questioned him, tone full of hurt, “All this time – _all this time_ you have let me _resent_ you – let me _hate_ him when – when really, he was – _he is_ – “ 

“Cat, you _have_ to understand,” Ned begged her, “Lyanna, she – she was – she had been holding on when I got there and – and it was the last thing – the last thing – she made me promise – I _had_ to – for her, Cat, and for _him_.” 

“You couldn’t have told _me_!?” 

“I couldn’t tell anyone! I couldn’t chance that Robert might find out – you know, how he is!” 

“I would _**never**_ – “ 

“It was safer this way – “ 

“Safer _how_? It has only put more strife on this household!” 

“I would rather strife than see it threatened by Robert’s wrath!” 

“ _What about mine!?_ ” Catelyn shouted as she got to her feet, pointing at her chest as tears rained down on his face, “What about the wrath of your wife?! I almost – _Gods_ , I – he is – he’s _her_ son, Ned, and you let me – “ 

“Mother,” Sansa lunged up to catch her as she swayed on her feet, helping her down to sit back on the chair before whispering mournfully, “I apologize, Mother, I should not have blamed you so. Please, do not feel guilty. You had every right to treat Jon the way you have – in fact, most would suggest you did more than you should have. Jon knows that, he does not blame you – “ 

“Gods, that poor boy – “Catelyn rasped before she turned to Sansa, flipping her arm so it grasped her daughter’s tightly as she rushed out, “We can’t send him away! How will he be any safer up there than he is here, in Winterfell, with us?” 

“Mother, there is no safety for Jon as long as Robert Baratheon reigns,” Sansa told her quietly, sending a knowing look at her father before continuing, “At least in the Watch he will be as far away from Robert and from Court as possible. I cannot promise the same if he is to remain in Winterfell, not with what is to come.” 

“What _is_ to come, daughter?” Ned demanded, helping his wife to stand beside him as they turned to face her, “You have told us nothing of this war, of how our family will be involved.” 

“Because the future is ever changing, Father,” Sansa reminded in gravely, “But right now, there are matters that will not be so easily swayed. You must find a way to avoid going south. There is nothing in court for you but pain, betrayal and if you let your honor rule you, _death_. You cannot become Hand. You cannot trust the Lannisters or anyone for that matter. There are no friends for you down there and you must find a way to stay here.” 

“Robert will not be so easily dissuaded, Child.” 

“ _I know this_ but if you value your life and the livelihood of my mother, myself and my siblings, you will do everything in your power to do so.” 

“And what of his other demand?” her father prompted firmly, but not unkindly, “You’re aware of how he seeks for you to marry Joffrey.” 

Sansa froze at that. Denying the king one thing was a prayer’s hope of being cast out of his favor. Refusing him of all would challenge his wrath, one that rivalled the one he possessed for the house whose crest was a three headed dragon. When she woke up in this life and saw the second chance she had been given, she had made a vow that she would never walk so willingly into the traps that had been laid for her in her past life, that she would never be the Little Dove, Alayne Stone or Lady Bolton. She would never walk a path barred in iron or gold and _she_ would be the one to decide her fate. 

But Sansa had also made another vow, one that she held even higher than the one she made for herself. She had sworn that House Stark would survive and prosper. She had sworn it to the Old Gods and New and she did not think they would take it kindly if she were to ruin her family more than it had been ruined in the time of future’s past because she could not sacrifice herself for their freedom, for their continuous strength and victory. 

Fear unsettled her heart as she spoke her next words aloud, but she knew they needed to be said. 

“I cannot begin to tell you of how much I do not want to marry him, Father. I have told you before that he would be the ruin of me and you, and of our family if he were given the chance. I fear to inform you of the injury he did me tonight, and how it would be more severe had it not been for Theon’s interference,” Sansa began truthfully, rolling up the sleeve of her arm to bear the blooming purple marks around her wrist and the swelling that had died down a little since it had been popped back into it's socket, “But I will gladly bear this mark and any manacle that comes with it if it meant you were spared the injury to yourself or even our house should Robert be angry at your refusal of him. Nothing is more important than the survival of our family.” 

_You are all I trust to see us through the Winter, Father. You, Mother, Robb, Jon, Arya, Theon, Bran, Rickon. They can win this war and the next and the next. I just need to give them the chance._

Sansa found herself numbly content with the declaration she made until her father lifted up her injured arm with a gentleness that brought tears welling up in her eyes once more, his own eyes flared in anger as he considered the purple splotches that resembled fingertips and he gritted his teeth as he growled. 

“ _Joffrey_ did this?” 

She nodded, preparing to grab him should he make for the door. Instead he gently placed her arm back at her side before gathering her up in his arms, whispering to her softly, “Sansa, it is taking everything in me right now not to wring that boy’s neck out. Knowing that the fate of not only myself but of you rests on how I convince the king to spare me the burden of Hand and you the burden of marriage is the _only_ thing that spares that boy from death. But do not mistake this restraint as indifference to the harm that has befallen you, daughter. You are just as much part of this family as I am, Sansa, and I will do everything within my power to see it that you _never_ go South as that boy’s betrothed, do you understand me, sweetheart?” 

Tears that she did not even know had fallen glistened in the firelight as she nodded, her breath hitching as her father lifted his hands to wipe them away before he pulled her into his chest as he murmured, “There is _nothing_ I would not do for our family, Sansa.” 

“I know, Father,” she croaked as she wrapped her arms around his torso, burying her face into his chest as she promised him, “As would I.” 

“Now, dear one,” he murmured softly as he drew back, his hands resting firmly on her small shoulders as he looked her in the eye to ask, “The future may be ever changing but you find people rarely do. In this war that you have seen, the one before the war in the North, what side do we fight for?” 

Sansa swallowed as she blinked up at him before answering firmly, “Our own.” 

“Sansa?” her mother questioned in confusion, coming to stand beside them, “What do you mean?” 

“I see a war where we fight for an independent North, one where it is ruled by the Northerners, like it had been thousands of years ago when Torrhen Stark was King.” 

“That can’t be,” Ned breathed out, shaking his head, “No, I would never – not against Robert -” 

“You mistake me, Father,” Sansa interrupted as she backed out of his arms to fix him with a stern look, “The war is not against Robert but his son, Joffrey and House Lannister.” 

“Robert would never – “ 

“The King is dead before this war even begins. So are you. In fact, you are the very reason it is started, at least, on our part.” 

She averted her eyes as she added the last statement, wiping at the tears that had begun to stain her cheeks as her father looked down at her, brows furrowed deeply at the troubling news. He lifted one hand to rub at his jaw in contemplation as he turned away from her. 

“How?” 

Sansa sighed deeply. Her father was not a stupid man. He knew that the man he grew up calling brother was not the king that lounged on the Iron Throne, pissed drunk and whoring himself out to not only the entirety of Flea Bottom, but to his own court. He was a broken, drunkard of a fool that held too much anger over ghosts, over little girls with their brother’s eyes and pale hair, over anyone that bore the blood of a dragon. 

Robert was not a man who could be reasoned with, nor a man that contained much reason these days besides the ones that made his life easier. Making his best friend his Hand so that someone competent could take care of ruling the kingdom in his steed while he whored and drunk his way through his kingdom. Having his son marry and bore children so he could carry the Baratheon line, and set him with the responsibilities he needed to become King one day. 

Be that as it may, she knew that her father would fret over changing the course of the future, if not for his own sake, than the sake for the brother that he still clung to as if he was still the same man he knew today. 

Sansa couldn’t let that happen. There were things that couldn’t be changed and Robert Baratheon’s death was one of them. His death was the catalyst _for_ change, one that she needed to happen so she could set in motion her own plans now that she knew what to avoid. 

Littlefinger thought that the chaos he would create from Jon Arryn’s death would ensure him real power. 

Sansa Stark needed a different kind of chaos and she would claim Robert Baratheon’s death as her catalyst to ensure the future of not only her family, but of the North. She would not let her father give his life trying to save Robert’s, not again. 

She didn’t feel any guilt as she lied to her father’s face, “Poisoned.” 

“Poisoned? By whom?” 

Her eyes fluttered up and she resisted the urge to smirk as she told him. 

“The Lannisters, of course.” 

\- 

After being interrogated thoroughly and to her father’s satisfaction, he had dismissed her from his study with the promise that they would discuss what they would do about Robert’s demand for her betrothal to his son and for Ned to become Hand. She bid her mother and father goodnight with a kiss on both their cheeks before leaving out into the night when she heard her uncle call out to her. 

Turning around, she found Benjen slipping out of the study after her and the dark haired man smiled gently down at her as he offered her his arm, “May I escort you to your chambers, lass?” 

She inclined her head and took his arm, apologizing quietly, “I am sorry that I had to burden your visit with such dark tidings, Uncle.” 

“It is my duty to hear dark tidings, I’m afraid,” he told her softly before lowering his voice to ask, “What you saw, of the happenings Beyond the Wall. Are they really as dire as you say?” 

Sansa nodded as she whispered back, “The deserter my father recently executed. How close was he to the Wall when his men were killed?” 

“Almost two days from the nearest post.” 

Sansa grasped at her chest where she sometimes felt a phantom cold spread around her heart and she breathed out, “It is worse than I realized.” 

“And you still think it a good idea that your brother should join the Watch?” 

Her shoulders slumped and she shook her head, “If I could, I would have it that he stay with me and my siblings but he _is_ needed at the Wall. And beyond it.” 

“What can Jon do that the men of the Watch can’t? Mind you, lass, these men, like myself, have dedicated most of their lives to the Wall and know – “ 

“Exactly,” she interrupted, stopping as they reached the door to the rooms she shared with Arya. She fixed her Uncle with a fierce look as she explained in a harsh whisper, “Those men have spent their lives honoring a strict code. A black and white order that doesn’t allow for anything but loyalty to the Wall – a wall that stands to divide two living peoples and to encourage further violence and conflict between those under the rule of the Iron Throne and the Free Folk.” 

Benjen leaned back as he contemplated what she was implying before warning in a low voice, “Sansa, the Free Folk _are_ dangerous – “ 

“No more dangerous than the cesspool of political mutiny down South,” she challenged in a whisper, her eyes darting around before she added, “The political mutiny that we have welcomed into our own home, brought into the Keep!” 

“ _Be that as it may_ – “ 

“We _need_ the Free Folk on our side,” she insisted, gripping his arm tightly, “Every living person is another person we have to fight the dead. If the Watch continues to isolate them from this war, you will only aid in helping us lose, not just our lives but the entire continent!” 

“They will not _kneel_ – “ 

“They will to him,” Sansa told him quietly, her declaration shocking him enough that he stepped back and out of her grip, “They will for Jon.” 

Benjen shook his head, looking over his shoulder to check if the hall was still empty before he told her, “You speak of _treason_!” 

“Were you not listening, Uncle? We are _surrounded_ by treason! In the king’s _own bed_ and claimed blood lies treason! What I speak of is for the good of Westeros, for the good of the world. Mark my words, Uncle, Jon Snow is the only one who can unite the Free Folk. And he can’t do that from we’re going.” 

“And that is?” 

“To war,” she leaned forward and whispered softly into his ear, “We’re going to war, Uncle. If you have any loyalty to this family, you will look out for Jon and put him on the right path. If you want to see us survive, you will do this for us. For me. Promise me.” 

Benjen reared back, his hands landing on his nieces shoulder as he considered her over carefully. He was right. Sansa was a changed girl, burdened by dreams of wars and monsters that should not be and should not have a chance of becoming. Nevertheless, he could not deny that the fear in her eyes and the terror on her tongue was genuine and in no way a fable made up by a child. 

He nodded once before relenting, “I will do what I can. I can promise you that.” 

Sansa sighed in relief, closing her eyes for a second before wrapping her arms around the man, whispering once more, “Thank you.” 

He patted her back before murmuring, “Good night, niece.” 

“Good night, Uncle.” 

With that, he turned around and walked back down the darkened hallway, his pitch-black furs disappearing around the corner and into the night. Sansa waited for a moment to be certain that he would not turn around before she made off towards her younger brothers’ rooms. She heard their laughter when she made it around the corner and hovered outside the doorway, her knuckles brought up to the door. She hesitated before knocking. Their laughter held genuine joy and happiness, and she knew as soon as she walked through that door, it would dampen their good mood. 

She turned on her heel to go back to her room when the floorboards creaked loudly under her foot. She made to run when the door opened and she was pulled into the room, into the warmth and the laughter. 

\- 

Sansa sighed and smiled sheepishly at Theon, who raised a brow and gave her a crooked smile as he paraded her around to her siblings. 

“Look who I found trying to run away!” 

“Alright, alright, you scoundrel!” she slapped at his hands that still held her elbow, shaking her head, “I came, didn’t I?” 

“I caught you running in the opposite direction!” he pointed out with a smirk. 

“I am here now. That ought to count for something!” Sansa sniffed, putting her hands on her waist as she gave him an annoyed look. 

“As you say, so shall it be, my Lady,” Theon bowed mockingly, his chin lifted up slightly than what was appropriate to give her a playful grin. Sansa resisted the urge to knock it off his face but instead turned away with a huff to her siblings who had chosen to settle back and watch the two of them with grins. 

“Have anything you would like to tell us, sister?” Robb asked, crossing his arms over his chest from where he leaned against the bed head of Bran’s bed, the little boy staring back and forth between his older siblings in confusion. 

Sansa’s eyes widened as they flickered to Bran and Rickon, who was curled up beside him, and Robb had the decency to duck his head in embarrassment. Smiling placatingly, she approached Rickon’s side of the bed and pulled the child onto her lap, kissing his auburn curls softly as he yawned and buried himself into her warm dress. 

“I do, in fact, have something to say,” she told Robb, who started shaking his head before she grinned mischievously at Bran, “A story to tell.” 

“A story before bed?” the dark-haired boy asked hopefully and she leaned over to ruffle his hair, Bran scrunching his face up but not losing his smile as he watched his sister make herself comfortable. 

Sansa beckoned Arya, Theon, and Jon over to sit with them and waited patiently as the boys hesitantly kicked off the walls they had been leaning on to approach them. 

Arya hopped over without hesitation, laying the skirts of her night gown over her crossed legs as she leaned forward, chin in hand and dark eyes blinking up at her eagerly. Theon pulled up a chair and sprawled himself on it. Jon tried to do the same with the armchair, but Arya reached out and snagged his wrist, dragging him over to sit beside her. 

“Is everyone comfortable?” Sansa asked them, directing her question mostly to Bran beside her. When the boy gave an enthusiastic nod of his head, she smiled back at him and couldn’t resist running her hands through his hair once more, not used to seeing her younger brother act so much like a child. 

“Once upon a time, in a land far north, there lived a little girl who could close her eyes and see what was, what is and what will be.” 

Bran gasped and tugged on her sleeve, “Like the greenseers in Old Nan’s stories?” 

“ _Exactly_ like the greenseers,” she whispered to him with a twinkle in her eyes, “The little girl lived with her family in a great Keep, like this one and every night, she would close her eyes and dream.” 

“Dream of what?” 

“Of the future, of course,” Sansa reminded him, watching as his little lips dropped open in awe, “And every night she saw the future of every member of her family. The first one was of the littlest boy, her youngest brother.” 

She smiled into Rickon’s hair and began, “She saw her youngest brother running through the forest, almost as wild as the wolf that ran at his side. _The Wild Wolf_ , he was called. He ran to a woman, a great woman with a great spear who protected them as they hunted. In the distance was – “ 

Her eyes glittered as any idea came to her. She was telling a story about her dreams of this future, the future she saw in her dreams, her nightmares. What if, instead, she built the foundations for the future that they could have. 

“Bear Island.” 

She saw Theon cock a brow in questioning and even Robb stopped to give her a bewildered look but Arya nodded as if it made sense. 

“An island where even the women are warriors, taught to fight, to hunt, to ride since they were girls in the event that raiders would come when their husbands and fathers were away. An island where the highborn family who ruled were rumored to have those among them that possessed the long lost gift of skinchanging. Warging.” 

“Beastlings,” Jon whispered quietly to himself, and Sansa turned towards him with a grin. 

“Imagine, those with the abilities to slip into the mind of wolves and bears alike,” she murmured lowly as Bran clutched his furs in his hands at the thought. 

“Could the boy do that?” 

She nodded but she was unsure. Rickon was too young when she left to show any real affinity for the gifts the rest of their siblings possessed but Bran once spoke to her of that first year that her, Arya and father were gone. He told her of the morning when he had demanded he be taken to the crypt after he dreamt a dream so fearful, he needed the reassurance that it was just that. A dream. 

It was with a voice devoid of emotion, of any feeling attached to the memory – or whatever it was that Bran possessed when he was the Three Eyed Raven – that he revealed how when he arrived at the crypts, he found Rickon with Shaggydog, crying about the same dream. 

That was the morning they found out that Father had been executed. 

“As could the rest of the siblings,” Sansa moved on, sending a sly smile to Bran and he perked up, as if sensing that this part would be about him, “The second youngest brother of the girl could slip into the mind of his wolf but also of other animals. Birds and beasts, feathers or claws. The boy who mount the walls of castles, who could run the rooves of keeps, who could fly without wings. This boy who could fly. This _Wolf Who Could Fly_.” 

_But may he always return to the ground_ , Sansa thought silently to herself, her fingers playing with the dark curly stands as she stared at her little brother. He was so different, so…. unknowing. His eyes weren’t dead or black as they grew wide, but with a brightness that she found so wholesomely Bran that she thought, _maybe it won’t be difficult, thinking of Bran like this again._

_Though, within a few days, his life would change forever, if the Gods had anything to say about it._

It made her pause in dangerous consideration. The Bran of the past had explained to her that things that were, were things that are supposed to be. Things that will be are because of the things that were. 

It muddled her mind then, since he had murmured it in that eerily, quiet voice as Arya and Sansa sat on either side of him in the Godswood, the morning before the night turned long and dark as the eve of war came upon them. His unearthly whisper was like an omen and her and Arya shared a troubled glance before her younger sister mumbled something of insincere nature about Bran’s confidence in their strategy. The remark didn’t faze their brother, he had just looked off into the distant wood as if he could see the coming army through the great expense of trees. 

It had been one of the last moments of peace they spent together, and it felt like had she was already sitting next to a corpse. A common feeling when the Three Eyed Raven would mutter dark, foreboding words from her little brother’s mouth. 

The boy beside her was warm under her hand, his body shaking in excitement at the idea of one day possessing those strange and wonderous gifts of skinchanging and something in her tightened at the sight. Dark eyes, wide and full of childish delight. Words that spoke in innocence and awe. With rich emotion, like the vibrant soul of her brother radiated with every gasp and every question. So curious, so outgoing, her brother was. 

Her siblings sat forward, her hesitation marked by them all as she stared and stared, trying to figure out how her brother’s story will play out. It was difficult to say, for his story of old had been guided by the hand of deities she didn’t quite understand. 

It was when she considered her story of new and the deities, the gods of people and places she hadn’t even seen, that had brought her back, that it occurred to her that there might be some things greater than the Three Eyed Raven if those greater things brought her back from death itself. 

“What else, Sansa?” Bran asked her, tugging her sleeve so that her hand slipped from his hair to rest on his small, skinny shoulders, “What happens to the boy?” 

_The Gods be good to me, for this is surely not what they planned when they brought me back_ , she prayed as her lips curled up to give her brother a charming smile, _But some things I cannot let repeat._

“He grows to be a good little lord but he never forgets that he is a wolf. He might become many things, a lord, a bird, a knight – “ 

_A Prince, maybe?_

“ – But he will _always_ be a wolf. The _Wolf Who Can Fly_ , but a wolf nevertheless.” 

Bran nodded seriously, his head lowering to stare at Summer, who rested by the fireplace with Shaggydog. His small fingers gripped the furs that Robb had pulled up to his chest and he whispered so quietly so that only she could hear him, “I promise.” 

Her eyes shined as she smiled at him before she turned to Arya, who cocked a brow at her as if to say, ‘I assume it’s my turn’. The dark-haired girl tried to be indifferent, but as she leaned against Jon’s shoulder, she could see there was a hunger inside Arya, to know what the future held for her. That there was more for her than what her past whispered. 

“But _the Winged Wolf_ was not the only one who would always be a wolf, for his sister, who would go to travel to many foreign lands, always be called back to the winter North that was her home. No matter the adventures, no matter the faces or swords she wielded or the names she called herself, the wolf would find home in the unlikeliest of places – “ 

_And people_ , Sansa added as an afterthought, her lips twitching at the memory of the blacksmith boy her sister used to run off to, coming back with a sly twist to her mouth with her fingers brushing the handle of a Dragonglass dagger with the affection that Sansa had not thought at the time, nor did she think now, was truly for the weapon but rather the young man who made it. 

“ _The Warrior Wolf_ ,” Arya whispered longingly, her fingers biting into Jon’s leather vest as the young girl grinned at her sister from the foot of the bed. 

“Indeed,” Sansa smiled back in kind. 

Arya had grown to be a warrior unmatched by any other, except for those that had fought the Battle that night. Sansa still remembered seeing her and Brienne of Tarth spin around each other, swords clashing ferociously. The great lady had managed to best a number of foes, some with fearsome titles of their own but had lost in a simple spar with Arya. _That_ had been the moment that Sansa had come to recognize the vast changes to her younger sister. 

She was not a fool. Those changes had come at a great cost to Arya’s soul. Death had seemingly followed her sister around, helping her flick the dagger she wielded along Petyr Baelish’s throat with an ease that had almost caused Sansa to break her composure. Arya had killed the Frey’s, the entire house except for the women and children. She had Walder Frey eat his own sons before she had slit his throat as well, at least, that was what she claimed. 

But Sansa knew the only reason Arya survived to do so was by entrusting herself to learn unique and foreign skills. If one wanted to constantly escape death, one had to master it. 

“The Wolf’s journey begins in a place far, far away from the Keep she calls home. In a city on the shores of a bay of black water, with a red castle looming above all. In this castle, great trouble is afoot. The Wolf is taught by a man of Braavos, a former First Sword and a master of Water Dance.” 

“I’ve heard of them,” Theon spoke up for the first time since the story started, his head rolling to Arya’s direction as he explained to the girl, “The swordfighters who practice Water Dance, I mean. They have smaller swords and usually wear less armor but their speed and fluidity causes them to be almost untouchable in a fight. Not my sort of fight but for a certain wolf….I can see it suiting her well.” 

He sent a wink to Arya who rolled her eyes and shoved the boot he had balanced on the bed post so that it caused him to straighten up before he could fall out of his chair. Sansa watched as her younger sister stuck her tongue out at him, but she could see Arya’s dark eyes beaming at the compliment and at the thought of one day learning that sort of swordplay. 

“The Wolf finds herself on a journey home, travelling with those that not only challenge her skill and instincts but also her strength of will. As long as her heart yearns for home, she will always find herself walking the right path. But _the Warrior Wolf_ will face many foes, will come face to face with monsters and enemies alike. It is only by trusting herself that she will come out victorious.” 

Arya leaned forward on her arms, brows furrowed as she demanded, “Who are these enemies? What are their names?” 

Sansa raised a brow before casting a glance around the room. The boys had also started at the mention of enemies and she knew by answering Arya’s question, she was also somewhat answering the ones they had been asking her since they had found out she possessed the gift of sight. 

_I mustn’t give away everything I know, for the future is always changing. But I can give away warnings._

“Beware of all those that hail from the Westerlands, none more so than those that call themselves lions. Stay away from the red-haired witch, she serves a master that only seeks to see us bowed. Trust in the great woman, the one carrying a great sword. Be wary of the dog that has left the crown. The Lord of Light is not one you should cast your life to but those who follow Him should not be ignored. Nameless is the price to greatness but also to forgetting all of which you have come from.” 

Arya scrunched her nose up at that, sitting back on her legs as she muttered, “That’s helpful.” 

Sansa inclined her head to her sister, her smile faltering, _I wish I could be more so._

Theon suddenly let out a sigh and turned his body so his legs no longer hung off the side of the chair but were set on the floorboards, his long torso leaning forward and it’s weight balanced on his elbows that were set on his knees as he rubbed his hands together eagerly, “This girl and her siblings, the ones in this story of yours. They must have a friend. A really handsome lad, one with a penchant for sharp arrows and beautiful women, perhaphs?” 

She gave him a cheeky smirk and pretended to think on it, tapping her finger to her chin to hide the way her heart stuttered in her chest as she tried to think of a future she could give him that didn’t end in tragedy – for himself or for her family. 

“Let’s see – ah, yes! How could I forget?” she threw her arms up, causing Bran to perk in interest beside her, “There was indeed such a lad – although, as to whether he is as handsome as you claim, Theon, is a matter entirely up to perspective.” 

The older boy scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest as he settled back against the chair. 

“But nevertheless, he too has a path he must walk and there are warnings he must heed. There will come a time where the friend will find a fork in the road. One way leads to glory, to a chance to prove himself, to blood and iron and salt - though, the path comes at a grave cost to the friend who walks it.” 

“Oh?” Theon raised a brow, jaw tightening as his eyes narrowed at her. 

“Indeed. The other path is not as grand but is nevertheless gracious. He proves himself to not only salt but to winter too. His actions will see him rewarded. His choice to walk this path leads to great victory but at a great sacrifice of his own personal desires.” 

The older boy nodded, considering her intensely. His sea blue eyes searched her face for any details she was clearly keeping from him and she found herself holding her breathe as she waited for the inevitable questions he would have that would force more and more of her until she would finally reveal the horrible fate that awaited him should he not heed her. 

In an act that surprised her, Theon merely shrugged his shoulders and leaned over to remark drily to Arya, “And you thought your one was helpful.” 

The young girl shoved his shoulder and snarked, “I think yours is pretty straightforward, Theon.” 

Sansa shook her head as the two glared at each other before turning to Jon, “There is another wolf who must also walk a path, colder than any other his kin will walk. One that leads him to a land more wild, more dangerous, and more deadly than anyone would ever know. The Wolf will meet strange people, with strange tales but he will listen to them all. _The White Wolf_ will need to remember three things. Always keep your eye Beyond the Wall. Keep a shield behind your back.” 

“And the third?” Jon asked quietly, shoulders tense. 

“Winter is coming.” 

They all cast each other troubled glances at her words, at the words of their house. Even Theon looked on disturbed, no longer sprawled carelessly in the chair as he stared at her quizzically. 

Sansa decided, for a moment, to put the story charade aside and leaned forward, beckoning them close as she swiveled her head between Jon and Robb, “Two wolves will be fighting wars on two fronts. One south and the other north. _This_ is inevitable. Nothing I do, say or know will stop it. The only hope for us all is to listen to me now with the warnings I will give. Your journey’s are the most important, not just for the survival of the kingdoms but of the entirety of Westeros as we know it.” 

The boys exchanged wide eyed glances of shock and she knew that she had them shaken. It was a sad thing to be satisfied about, scaring them into believing the severity of their circumstances but it was a necessary sadness that she couldn’t dwell on, not for her sake, not for theirs nor for the kingdom that unknowingly depended on them all. 

Her and her siblings were all players of a greater game that they yet to full realize and she had to prepare them to play it with the intent of winning. The Starks will never be removed from the board again. 

“Sansa,” Bran tugged on her sleeve again and she was reminded that her brother, her innocent, naïve, unknowing brother was still sitting next to her expecting to hear a bedtime story, “How does the story end?” 

She smiled at him and pulled him so that he curled into her side, and she cast a serious glance at their siblings and Theon surrounding them all and told them quietly, “With a Red Wolf, A Wild Wolf, A Winged Wolf, A Warrior Wolf, A Friend with a Penchant for Arrows – “ 

Sansa rolled her eyes for Theon, who let his lips twitch in amusement but disappeared as she continued, “A White Wolf and the eldest of them all, _the Wolf **King**_.” 

Her gaze ended on Robb and she watched her older brother mull of the title before it’s meaning was realized. 

_Long Live the King in the North, Who's Name Is Stark._


End file.
